


Ataashi; Kadan

by BritishRobutt, demihawke



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Arcturus is afraid of Cassandra, Arcturus smells really good, Blood Magic, Body Horror, Bull can smell dragons, Captivity, Experimentation, Gamoran Stormrider, In that Arcturus is a dragon, M/M, Nugs, Oh Tevinter, Secret Identity, Secrets, Slow Boil, Transformation, Transgender Dragon, but yet angsty, kind of?, transgender character, utter crack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-02
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-24 12:16:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4919272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BritishRobutt/pseuds/BritishRobutt, https://archiveofourown.org/users/demihawke/pseuds/demihawke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Inquisitor is actually a high dragon, and works to hide his dragon-ness as Herald of a religion that he does know of or care for while trying to solve the problems of a whole new world.</p><p>--<br/>Bull gazed off into the distance, his eye trained on the back of the Inquisitor as Arcturus crested over the nearby mountain peak. He sighed happily. "Dragons, Krem. Dragons. He really channels that rage in bed, you know."</p><p>Krem smacked his shoulder.</p><p>"I don't need to hear about that, Chief."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hissing Wastes Experiment

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize for the shortness of the first chapter; I promise it will be longer, next time! This is a pet project devised by myself and my brother in arms, demihawke. Since I am in college, updates will not be regular, but I will try not to take too long between posts.

The Hissing Wastes was a miserable, sun-blasted, Maker-forsaken place. Even now, as the brightening sky heralded the approaching dawn, it was uncomfortably warm. In the middle of the day, the heat would put the hottest summer day in Minrathous to shame. The esteemed Magister Tarsian dabbed at his brows and neck with his silk handkerchief, futilely wiping away the sweat beaded there. He was already regretting the decision to leave his tent, which was equipped with enough cold runes to make the air only moderately warm. The addition of two cases of rare vintages made the heat even more bearable.

He had not been pleased when one of the servants had awoken him, informing him that the Tal-Vashoth had requested his presence at the experiment site. Requested! The fall of that ox! Nevertheless, she was necessary for the experiment. Any dracologist worth their salt had connections in Tevinter or Orlais. Tarsian preferred to keep his studies out of the hands of his competitors.

Tarsian's boots dug into the loose sand as he crested the hill separating the main camp from the site of his experiments. The whole expanse was nestled out of the way of the major routes and contested territories, away from prying eyes and warded with enough barriers and traps to deter even the most dangerous wildlife and other intruders.

The experiment site was a small canyon, barely more than a 200 foot long crack about 100 feet deep, clustered with thick scrub bushes and sandstone boulders. Guards were posted on the top of the canyon walls, and at the entrance at the bottom of the hill. The two at the entrance bowed as Tarsian swept past, but he paid them no mind as he entered the canyon. The gap between the large walls was extremely small by design; nothing larger than a small horse would fit through the gap. In some places, Magister Tarsian was forced to turn sideways in order to fit, but it was routine at this point. 

After a minute, he passed the last twist in the path and entered the larger space in the middle of the canyon. Above, a large, magically-enforced steel net stretched across the gap, boxing in the whole area and protecting its inhabitants from the harshness of the desert sun. The net was layered with enchanted dark cloth, protecting both the net and the canyon from the sand and weather. Tarsian sighed happily as he entered the shaded area, which was notably cooler than the outside climate even at this hour. Thank the Maker.

The Tal-Vashoth woman was present, standing outside of the observation tent with her arms crossed, her multiple braids flapping in the wind as she looked over the large clearing. At Tarsian’s approach, the enormous Qunari turned her head, and beckoned imperiously. Tarsian bristled angrily, and marched over.

“You asked for me?” He ground out.

The Qunari nodded, the bells tied to her horns jingling softly. “Taashath, Magister Tarsian. Calm. I dared not come myself; I could not leave the ataashi unattended,” She said.

Tarsian’s eyes narrowed, and he peered into the clearing. Taardathras took her duties to him seriously; something must have occurred to keep her here.

“What is it? Has there been any change in the offspring?” He demanded. The Qunari inclined her head, and pointed towards the clearing.  
“Look,” She said,”There are only three females in sight. Where is the fourth? She’s there, tucked behind the mother’s wing.”  
Tarsian’s gaze followed the Qunari’s gesture. Across the clearing, tucked up against the far rock wall, was a high dragon. A Gamordan Stormrider, to be specific, and the crown jewel of Tarsian’s accomplishments. It hadn’t been easy to transport two adult dragons to the Hissing Wastes without detection. 

She was asleep at the moment, her deep breaths stirring up small clouds of sand with each exhale. At her flanks, three dragonlings were similarly asleep. Tarsian took a step closer to the dragons. He could make out a dark shape behind the mother’s wing. As he moved closer, the silhouette shifted, sprawling out across the mother Stormrider’s back and whining softly. It flailed weakly around for a minute before it settled back down, tucking it’s stick thin limbs under its body. Tarsian’s breath caught in his throat.

“Did you record the initial transformation?” He asked, unable to tear his eyes off the small sleeping figure.  
“Yes. I sent a servant as soon as I detected signs of the ataashi responding to the treatment. The transformation took approximately seven minutes, with no sign of visible distress on the subject’s part,” Taardathras responded, coming up next to Tarsian’s side.

“Our first success,” Tarsian breathed, all traces of his bad mood gone. It was a shame he had missed the transformation, but there would be plenty of time later. Oh, how the Magisterium would envy him, if they ever knew what he had done! He turned to Taardathras, who was staring at the dragons with something close to awe in her eyes.

“Check the notes,” He ordered, “I need to see what blood samples were used in the treatments. Subject appears to be elven in appearance, although the transformation doesn’t appear to be complete. Further treatments may fix this observation.”  
The Qunari woman bowed. “I will arrange for a more detailed examination of the subject once the sun rises,” She said. Tarsian nodded, and then reluctantly turned back to the observation tent.

Oblivious to the scheming going on a few hundred feet away, the dark silhouette on the mother dragon’s back stretched out his legs lazily, kicking out one scaled foot. Olive skin glowed in the light of the coming dawn as the small child rolled over onto his stomach, pointed ears twitching as he nuzzled the dragon’s back, carried back into unconsciousness by the comforting smell of his mother.


	2. Observations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here's the next chapter! We're very eager to get the action around Inquisition, but we decided that there should be some things established before our lovely dragon meets everyone's favorite Qunari spy. The next update should be sometime this coming weekend, college schedule permitting (if not, thank you for your patience). Thank you for showing so much interest! In other happy news, BritishRobutt will be writing 50k of this fanfic for NaNoWriMo this coming November!

A few hours after the initial discovery, Magister Tarsian had pages and pages of new observations, theories, and more questions than he could answer. His back and hands had cramps, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. He looked up from his desk in the observation desk over to the dragon enclosure, propping his chin up on his hand.

Now awake, the Stormrider mother watched over her dragonlings, attentive as a mother cat. She currently couldn’t see the observational tent thanks to Tarsian’s barrier, but she still was agitated. Her nostrils flared angrily, and with a roar she flapped her wing and fired off a bolt of lightning into the ground, blasting the sand into glass chips.

Tarsian sighed. He’d had to conjure the barrier after the mother decided the best way to deal with her imprisonment (after the attempt to break the overhead net failed) was to fire bolts of lightning at anything that moved in the canyon. Taardathras had assured him then that this was a normal response, and Tarsian had endeavored to increase the dose of sedatives in the high dragon’s meal.

However, he currently needed her to be awake for the experiment, and he couldn’t shut off her innate ability to sense magic. The dragon knew something was there, but she couldn’t find it. After another angry roar, the Stormrider tucked her wing back in and swept her head over her brood. The other female dragonlings had shown no signs of transformation, and instead were playfully wrestling with one another like a bunch of large, scaly kittens.

The transformed dragonling was precariously perched on her mother’s front legs, stick-thin limbs trembling wildly as she tried to climb higher up. She appeared confused by her new appendages, and quickly tumbled down the mother’s leg to the sand below. Once there, she looked up at her mother, limbs askew, blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, and mewled plaintively as she lay there. The mother rumbled softly, bringing her head down to the transformed dragonling. The dragonling mewled again and flopped over onto her mother’s horns, her legs splayed out.

“Interesting,” Tarsian muttered as the mother dragon lifted the child up into the air, “The subject appears to possess male genitalia. In all appearances, subject is a healthy male elf specimen, though there are still patches of scales remaining on various parts of the face and torso. Estimated age is late childhood to early adolescence. Further examination required; I need to know if the dragonling is still female in its original form. Female dragons are essential to the success of experiment.”

The Stormrider mother deposited the dragonling behind her wing, and then resumed her watching duties.Tarsian tapped his quill across his knuckles. The mother seemed overly protective of the dragonling, more so than yesterday. As he watched, the Stormrider curled her wing over, covering her offspring completely. She appeared to still recognize the subject as a dragon, as well as kin. There were so many questions that needed to be answered. Tarsian set the quill down, and blew gently on the parchment to let the ink dry.

“Magister!”

Taardathras stood at the entrance to the observation area, accompanied by two servants leading a train of goats and rams.

“Ah, good,” Tarsian said, “Feeding time. Taardathras, have you found the slave provider for the dragonling’s treatment? The slave was elven, as I recall.”

“Yes,” Taardathras responded, withdrawing a sheaf of papers and a vial of blood from the sleeve of her robe. She handed them over, and Tarsian browsed the diagrams and details of the slave.

“He was of the Dalish, and the most recent acquisition by your Laetan assistant for this expedition,” The Qunari explained, “He was originally from Clan Lavellan, in the Free Marches, and was trained by their mages. I visited the slave quarters personally, and examined him personally. Your subject looks like a younger version of the slave. Side by side, I would call them father and son.”

“Daughter,” Tarsian corrected. “Interesting. Every mage has their own unique magical signature. Perhaps the blood provided the foundation for shape, and combined with my magic as a catalyst, allowed the success. Mere speculation, I’m afraid. I’m hoping the treatment and sedatives in the meal will induce a transformation in some of the other females, or a reversal of the present transformation. I need to be sure everything is in working order before I try to teach intelligence to a species that notably lacks it.”

He nodded to the two servants, who led the goats and rams to the edge of the marked barrier. After the mother ate one of the guards who accidentally stepped too far over, it had been necessary to burn a line into the sand.

At his signal, the two servants urged the goats and rams forward through the barrier. Tarsian’s hands glowed, and the barrier became visible for a brief moment before an invisible wall sprang into existence, trapping the livestock inside.

The mother dragon’s head shot up, and the livestock panicked. They scattered, and the female dragonlings playing on the ground went after them eagerly. One of the rams crashed into the invisible barrier, and the dragonlings swarmed over to the stunned animal. The Stormrider mother rose to her feet and lashed out with one claw, snagging one of the goats. She tore off the beast’s head, and snapped down the rest of the body in a single gulp. Tarsian nodded approvingly. Sometimes the mother refused to eat the drugged livestock, but it looked like she was in a cooperative mood today.

The remainder of the livestock continued to panic, all of them crashing into Tarsian’s barrier in a futile attempt to escape. The dragonlings were fighting amongst each other as they dug into their meal. As Tarsian watched, the elf-dragonling poked her head out from behind her mother’s wing, lips parting to reveal a row of needle-point teeth.

Upon seeing the goats and rams, the elf gave a shriek of what Tarsian assumed was delight, and tried to move out from behind her mother’s wing. Immediately, the mother dragon growled at the dragonling, and nudged the elf child with her snout. The elf cowered for a moment, and then submitted to her mother’s prodding and retreated back behind the wing.

“Taardathras, record this,” Tarsian called out, “The Stormrider doesn’t want to let the transformed dragonling off of her back. Look! She’s even bringing over a goat for the child to eat!”

“Interesting,” Taardathras responded, quill scratching on parchment. “In my experience, at this stage in the dragon’s adolescence, the mother would allow the dragonlings to hunt and mostly live on their own. She defends her territory and allows the dragonlings to linger until adulthood. It’s unusual, certainly.”

“She’ll be old enough to leave the nest in a week or two,” Tarsian said, waving a scented handkerchief under his nose to stave off the stench of raw meat wafting downwind. “I’ll have her separated and see if the mother can’t be convinced to breed again. You’ll be responsible for her education, should she ever become capable of speech.”

  
Taardathras’ cheek twitched in agitation, but she said nothing and instead bowed deeply. Both of them then observed in silence as the elf child munched happily on the dead goat's leg, gore and other various giblets dribbling down her cheek.


	3. Unsuccessful Repetition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (and likely the following) will be a series of time-skips, leading up to the explosion at the Conclave and the start of our adventure. As much as I love describing forbidden experiments out in the desert, I don't think three years worth of chapters is all that interesting. I will likely dedicate a chapter or two to our child Arcturus exploring the world as a free dragon warrior.
> 
> Italics are Tevene, regular text is Common.
> 
> ALSO! WONDERFUL ART BY THE WONDERFUL DEMI-HAWKE ON TUMBLR! You can find a picture of Arcturus right here: http://demihawke.tumblr.com/post/131058105103/here-is-ace-hawkes-and-my-son-arcturus-from

**Solace, 9:34 Dragon**

_“Try to say it. Hands.”_

_“Hands. Hhhaaandsssss,”_ He tried, the words slurring past unfamiliar lips and teeth as sharp as needlepoints. Grey Horned Mother sounded happy. Good! Good! She reached out, and he took the piece of meat from his hand delicately. No more biting. Biting bad.

 _“Excellent. Now, can you name your species?”_ Grey Horned Mother asked next, fetching another treat from her furs. Food. Foooooooood.

He frowned, mouthing out the word he wanted. He knew this. Smart. He was smart. He rolled the word around on his tongue, and then he tried his best.

_“D-drahgon.”_

Grey Horned Mother made a whoosh noise. _“That is technically correct,”_ She said, _“But what species are you right now?”_

_“Ehlf?”_

_“Elf,”_ Grey Horned Mother corrected. _“Elllllllf.”_

_“Elf.”_

_“Good, good,”_ Grey Mother said, and held out another treat. He took it from her teeth again, and then curled up on his furs. In the background, Scaled Mother called out for him, but it was distant, distorted. Had to go to her. Calling him. Grey Horned Mother did not seem to understand. Tell her.

 _“Maather calling,”_ He said, and then paused for a moment to try out the words in his head. _“Calling me. Worry.”_

Grey Horned Mother made an anger/sad face.

“You’ll be returned to your mother once you’ve learned how to properly string a sentence,” She said. He made a piteous noise as she moved away from the bars, and reached out a stick-thin limb to paw at her. He had to go to Scaled Mother. Had to!

 _“Phlease,”_ he slurred, _“ah-I… neeed tew see scaled mother.”_

Grey Horned Mother stopped in her tracks, and turned back to him. Good! Good! She could let him out of barred box, and he could see scaled mother!

 _“Good,”_ She said, and extracted the small metal object that would open the barred box. _“With proper motivation, you learn quickly. Good, good. Now try that again, imekari, and I’ll take you to your mother.”_

He nodded. He would be good! Grey Horned Mother would let him see Scaled Mother. Had to be good.

 _“Please… let me see… her,”_ He choked out. The door to the barred box was opened, and he scrambled out onto the cool rocks below. Another piece of meat was offered, and he took the treat gratefully. Grey Horned Mother stroked his hair, and looked down on him.

_“Good. Come, let us see your mother.”_

**[From the Notes of Magister Tarsian Claudius, August 9:36 Dragon]**

It’s been two years since I’ve had my first success with the offspring of a Gamordan Stormrider, who I managed to procure in the middle of her breeding cycle. More’s the shame she now refuses the drakes I found with her.

She won’t breed for another hundred years, but once I publish my notes and present my one successful subject in Tevinter, perhaps I can secure enough funding to hunt down another dragon or find an active nest.

The use of blood magic as a treatment has proven to be unsuccessful in the rest of the female dragonlings. After my success, I used the same treated blood on the other dragonlings, but to no effect. The dragonlings matured enough to leave the nest, and I regretfully had to put them down before the newly grown drakes could do what the crippled mother could not-- go after the guards in packs and try to break the net. There’s not enough mages present to maintain the barrier, so I had the situation dealt with.

Taardathras, the Tal-Vashoth ox, has been quintessential to my operation here. The subject is enamoured with her (perhaps because of the horns? I was informed that the ox-people seem to view dragons as distant ancestors, bred by their barbaric priests), and takes to her lessons readily.

As I noted previously, the blood magic transformed the subject into a male elf, around adolescent age, who closely resembles the Dalish slave whose blood was prepared into the treatment. Bizarrely, once the subject had grasped the nuances of language and expression, actually identified itself as male (after inspection, I have confirmed that subject’s original form is indeed a fully functional female dragon), and even chose a name for itself, which I will include for completeness.

The subject has chosen the name Arcturus, a Fereldan name in origin, taken from a letter my Laetan assistant wrote to his blood relative. Subject, once the name was chosen, seemed adamant about being called such. It speaks perfect Common and Tevene at the level I would expect of a dragonling of three years.

On the topic of the subjects age; it appears the blood magic has had a more adverse effect over the past year. As the hatchling was forced into an adolescent elven form, it’s original form rapidly grew and changed over the past year, until now the subject resembled a mature dragon, about to reach high dragon status. According to my observations, I hypothesize that the age of the dragon’s elven form must match up with the subject’s age.

I may have reduce the subject’s lifespan to that of an elf, instead the hundreds of years it is expected to live. Once I have left this wretched desert and my success lauded, I will consult with a dracologist on the age of my subject. Side Note: The transformation process is… brutal, to say the least. I’ve taken to collecting samples of the shed teeth, skin, and nails to catalogue later.

**[The next entry is not dated, but rather hastily scribbled on a sheaf of paper tucked into the research journal]**

Kaffas! Danarius is gone from the Magisterium, and now my absence in the Council has been noted. The other families are too busy feuding over the latest proposals, and some of them even had the cheek to inquire after me like an elderly spinster aunt! I would have had liked to have another year of study out here, but my wife-to-be will have none of it.

Very well. I shall leave Remus here to oversee the disposal of the Stormrider (she’ll not fly, not with her wing as it is) and arrange for the slaves to be sent back to Tevinter. I will leave now with half of my guards, the Tal-Vashoth, and my subject. I must have something to show for all my research!

* * *

 

 _“Dominus,”_ Arcturus said, bowing as Master Tarsian entered the pavilion. He moved aside as the Magister strode forward to his writing desk and started to sort out the papers stacked there. Arcturus was pleased with his news clothes; Mistress Taardathras had finally deemed him ‘civilized’ enough to be given smallclothes, breeches, a tunic, and even a leather strip to bind back his hair! The collar and cuffs were designed to hide the patches of scales (he still had swathes on his neck and elbows), and his Master’s symbol was stitched onto the front.

On the back of his neck, the brand smarted. The flesh was still a bright red, and sensitive to the touch. Absentmindedly, Arcturus reached back to rub at the healing skin, only to have his arm caught in a vice of magic. He froze instantly, his eyes flicking to his Master, still hunched over his papers. His hands, however, glowed a brilliant teal.

_“Arcturus,”_ Master Tarsian said in Tevene, _“What have I told you about touching the brand?”_

Arcturus gritted his teeth, dropping his gaze to the Master’s boots, and silently berated himself. It had only been a simple order, and he couldn't even follow that!

_“I apologize, Master Tarsian. It will not happen again,”_ Arcturus said, bowing low again as the Magister released his hand and turned around.

_“Does the brand hurt, Arcturus?”_ Master Tarsian asked, a strange expression on his face. He stepped closer.

_“The skin has not yet healed, dominus,”_ Arcturus said hesitantly, recalling his lesson with Taaradathras. He had to tell the truth, but in a way that did not insult the Master. Insulting the Master never ended well. He finished, _“It itches fiercely, and it sometimes reacts to the desert air.”_

__

The Magister stared at him, hazel eyes meeting poison green, and the man was silent for a few moments. Arcturus kept his hands tightly at his sides, and resisted the urge to clench his fingers into a fist. It was one of his nervous tics, as Taardathras had been quick to point out in her teachings.

 _“Do you know why I gave you the brand?”_ Master Tarsian finally asked, clasping his hands behind him and turning to face the desk once again. Arcturus hesitated again. Taardathras had not helped him prepare the right kind of response to questions like this. He decided on the side of caution.

_“Mistress Taardathras said it was both an indication of status and a way to ensure everyone would know who I belonged to,”_ Arcturus said, _“As a non-citizen, non-mage, and non-human in both forms, I would be liable to be taken off the streets by slavers on the first day and sold on the markets. As I have learned, elves, especially one of my… complexity are a valuable commodity in Tevinter. The brand would prevent even the lowest of slavers from re-selling me on the market, and if any guards found me they would be sure to return me to you, Master.”_

Master Tarsian nodded, apparently pleased by Arcturus’ answer, and the breath Arcturus had been holding in was exhaled silently. He had passed the test.

 _“That is correct, Arcturus. I placed the brand there for your safety,”_ He muttered, sliding his research papers into special canvas bags. _“You are a one of a kind creature in Thedas, and the pinnacle of my achievements. But you are still learning about this world, and your place within it. The brand will keep you safe. I too will keep you safe.”_

_“I thank you for your protection, dominus,”_ Arcturus responded quietly, watching as his Master started to roll up larger diagrams and slotting them into special protective tubes.

From his Master’s words, the branding did make sense, but Arcturus felt that there was another meaning to the symbols on the back of his neck. He had been given medicine to numb the pain during the procedure, and afterwards he had been tended by the Master himself to ensure a clean scar and no infection.

Arcturus still found himself doubting his Master’s reasoning. There was something more about the brand that Tarsian and Taardathras would not tell him, and Arcturus would not ask. He was loyal to Master Tarsian. He was.

“Arcturus, are you ready for travel?” Master Tarsian asked, switching effortlessly to Common. Ah, a language test. It took Arcturus a moment, but he nodded.

 

“Yes. I’ve packed up my furs and the tent, and helped the servants load it onto the wagons. If you wish, Master, I can help pack up your tent,” Arcturus said, proudly not stumbling over the new language. He had learned Tevene first, and it was hard to adjust to the new pronunciation style.

Master Tarsian nodded approvingly, flashing Arcturus a small smile. “Perfect enunciation, and correct possessive. Excellent,” he said, and Arcturus felt a small, warm rush of pride bubbling inside that he couldn’t clamp down on.

“You won’t need to pack up the tent, Arcturus,” Master Tarsian continued, “The other slaves will handle it. You’ll be riding in the iron wagon, and there will be a tarp to protect you from the sun. Run along and put your pallet and furs into the wagon, and then speak to Taardathras. She will have tasks for you, surely.”

“As you wish, _dominus,_ ” Arcturus said, bowing once more before stepping out of the tent into the blinding glare of the desert sun outside. The sand felt warm and pleasant on his bare feet. He blinked to clear his vision, lifted a hand to shade his gaze from the sun.

The camp was a busy nest of activity. The off-duty guards were packing up their tents, which were separated from the slave’s quarters and the servant’s tents. The servants were scurrying around, preparing food and loading the remainder of the supplies into wagons. The slaves were already inside one wagon, the iron bars locked tight. Next to their wagon was his own, the iron door wide open. The horses hadn’t been hitched in yet, but it was just a matter of time. Half of the camp was leaving, after all.

As Arcturus walked towards the wagon, he was approached by two other elven servants carrying a tarp between them. Without prompting, Arcturus helping them unfold and spread out the whole thing in silence. The three of them moved over to the wagon, and tossed one half of the tarp over the iron cage. There were a few coils of ropes piled next to one of the wheels.

Arcturus stooped down to pick up the bundled rope, and tossed it to the elven servants. He threaded his own rope through the metal ring on the tarp, and then lashed it onto the cage’s bars. While the two servants worked on their respective corners, Arcturus finished his side of the wagon.

When they were done, Arcturus bowed respectively to the two of them (Master Tarsian insisted on maintaining Tevinter hierarchy here; while Arcturus was clearly favored, the servants were Liberati and considered higher status) and went to go retrieve his furs and blankets from the tent.

His tent had been next to the Magister’s, and the main piece of canvas was already on board one of the other wagons. In the shadow of Master Tarsian’s tent, Arcturus’ small bedroll and the pile of furs he had slept for his entire (short) childhood. They were worn, but still soft to the touch.

He bundled the folded furs to his chest, inhaling the comforting scent of nest emanating from them, and walked over to his caged wagon. He brushed the sand off as best as he could (Master Tarsian said he could wash them properly once they were out of the Hissing Wastes, when they had enough water!), and stepped up into the cage, laying out a few of the furs to cover the hard wooden floor as best he could. He then went back and retrieved his bedroll, spreading it out on top of the furs.

It would take at least two days to exit the desert, and while the days were scorching, the nights could easily cause hypothermia. After it was arranged to his liking, Arcturus wriggled out of the wagon, closing the barred door behind him. He was to go to Taardathras next.

The Tal-Vashoth woman was overseeing the deconstruction of the primary research tent as the servants started to pull up the stakes securing the canvas tent.

 _“Ah, Arcturus,”_ she said gently, folding her arms into the sleeves of her robes, _“Have you seen Master Tarsian yet?”_

Arcturus smiled. _“I did, Taardathras! He told me to put the tarp on the wagon and pack all my bedding inside!”_

Taardathras hummed approvingly. _“And did you?”_

 _“I did!”_ Arcturus hurriedly assured her. He would not have been idle, not for a direct order from Master Tarsian!

 _“Master Tarsian also wanted me to ask if you needed me to do anything for you, Mistress,”_ He finished.

Taardathras smiled, and brought one clawed hand up to brush a strand of Arcturus’ blonde hair and tuck it behind his pointed ear.

 _“Get in the wagon,_ **_imekari.”_** She instructed softly. _“I do not require your assistance presently. Once the research tent is packed away, we will leave this place. Master Tarsian is busy, but he will stop by and secure your wagon. Go on and get comfortable.”_

 _“Yes, Mistress,”_ Arcturus said, before he turned on his heel and strode back to his wagon. Taardathras was correct, of course. Swinging the door open, Arcturus hopped up onto the back of the wagon and watched as the servants continued their work. The main bulk of the camp was already packed onto a caravan of wagons. The remainder had been moved to the mouth of the canyon, where Arcturus’ mother lay. Arcturus gazed wistfully at the path into the canyon.

He hadn’t been able to see her in months, not after his presence riled her up last time. Still, Arcturus wished he could see her, one last time. He would not likely return. Master Tarsian had not mentioned that he had ever intended to return to the Hissing Wastes personally, and Arcturus doubted his Master would let him out of his sight once in Tevinter. His mother would not be breeding again in his Master’s lifetime. Arcturus was the culmination of Tarsian’s research. He was valuable.

Arcturus tucked his knees up to his chest, and watched as his Master strode over to his wagon. It was time to go. He scooted backwards into the cage, and draped one of his furs across his knees. Master Tarsian said nothing as he withdrew a metal key and shut the cage door.

 **  
**The key turned into the lock, and then the servant trailing behind Master Tarsian pulled the tarp down over the door, obscuring Arcturus’ view of the outside world. He was surrounded by beige canvas, and nothing else. He slumped back against his sleeping pallet as the horses outside neighed and the wagon lurched forward. Arcturus sent a silent goodbye to his mother and his childhood home as he curled up under the furs. He wished he could have roared, so that she could have heard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and Kudos are much appreciated! We treasure each and every one, and it's really encouraging!


	4. 9:35 Dragon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the delay; college has been kicking me up and down and I've been having problems with my social anxiety. I'll be doing NaNoWriMo as I've said, and I'll be working alternatively on this and another one of my fanfics (not NoN). Be as that may, there still may be delays in post. I will try to keep updating once a week, but please keep in mind I will have a busy schedule as the semester starts coming to an end. I'll try to win NaNo this year.

Green. There was so much green. Arcturus pressed his face up against the bars of his cage as the wagon train trundled along the paved Orlesian road. The browns and yellows of the desert sand had been replaced with a deep emerald carpet of moss, speckled with leaves and blossoming flowers. There were birds flitting across the road constantly, and Arcturus had spotted a nearly-hidden family of deer just behind the tree line. The air was colder, and he had taken to burying himself in his familiar pile of furs.

The wagons rolled along on the paved road, surrounded by the escort of Master Tarsian’s guards. Master Tarsian himself was riding in a wagon along with Taardathras. The guards spoke quietly amongst themselves, but they were out of earshot and Arcturus had to settle for watching the scenery pass by, slowly but surely.

After a few hours, even the novelty of green had worn off. Arcturus burrowed into his sleeping roll, piling his furs on top of him as he did so. It was cold enough that he could see his breath, and he was wearing little more than a tunic and breeches. He wanted something to do besides sit in his cage and watch the rest of the caravan. The servants constantly moved between the wagons, taking it in shifts to either ride on the wagons or walk on the paved road. They were on foot, while the guards were mounted, constantly patrolling the length of the caravan.

Every once in a while, a scout would come riding back to the caravan and speak to the commander of the guards, but they were farther back in the caravan, and even Arcturus’ pointed ears couldn’t pick up their conversations. Arcturus sighed and rolled closer to the back of his cage. Why couldn’t Master Tarsian allow him to travel in his original form?

He supposed that someone might see him, but why would they link a dragon back to a Tevinter Magister? From what Taardathras had told him about Orlesians, the people behind the might of the empire welcomed death as some kind of sick game. Surely the appearance of a dragon for a day or two would be dismissed.

At the campfire last night, Master Tarsian mentioned that they were only going to be in Orlais for a couple of days. Supplies were low, and Arcturus was partially guilty for the situation. As if on cue, Arcturus’ stomach growled, and he wrapped his arms around it, trying to quiet the sounds. He was grateful that Master Tarsian fed him regularly. Even as an elf, Arcturus ate twice the amount of food (preferably meat) a person of his age needed on a daily basis. He hadn’t been allowed to hunt in the Hissing Wastes; Tarsian wanted him under close observation.

“Captain!” One of the scouts called out, pulling up to the man in question on the back of his horse. He reigned in the beast right next to the captain, and then took a minute to take a few deep breaths. “There’s a roadblock up ahead, sir. Bandits, it looks like, although some appear to be wearing old Templar uniforms,” He reported. The captain whistled sharply, and signalled the caravan to halt.

“Deserters, most likely,” The captain spat, “Addicts, taken to robbing the major roads for coin and valuables.”

The man dismounted, and made his way over to the Magister’s carriage. He knocked lightly on the carriage door, which swung open a couple of inches. Arcturus couldn’t hear what he said to Master Tarsian, but the door opened up and Magister Tarsian stepped out of the carriage. He beckoned the scout closer. They spoke for a moment, too quiet once again for Arcturus to hear. Arcturus moved outside of his sleeping roll, and pressed himself up against the bars, his ears straining.

“Are you quite sure that’s what you saw?” Tarsian said sharply, raising his voice momentarily. The scout nodded respectfully, taking a step back. The Magister sighed, obviously irritated.

“Kaffas! Bloody Orlesians can’t even keep their roads clear…” He trailed off, tapping his fingers against his chin. Behind him, Taardathras climbed out of the carriage, her robes rustling quietly.

“How strong is the roadblock?” Taardathras asked, “Could your guards push past it? Or should we resort to... other tactics?”

Arcturus backed a bit away from the bars as the Tal-Vashoth’s gaze slid over to him. They locked eyes for a moment, and then she turned her stare on the Magister. Arcturus wrung his hands nervously, scooting backwards towards the relative safety of his bedroll. Surely she wasn’t suggesting that Arcturus kill those men, right? Right?

“The roadblock appears sturdy, madame,” The scout replied, “I wouldn’t suggest mounting a frontal assault. We have more numbers than the bandits, but with the advantage of that roadblock they could easily pick us off and force us to leave the wagons in order to get around it.”

Master Tarsian turned to Taardathras. “You may have a point,” The Magister admitted, turning to look in Arcturus’ direction. “He could break up the barricade and scatter the bandits long enough for the wagons to pass through safely. But I could also achieve this, and I don’t want to show our hand too early.”

Arcturus let out a silent sigh of relief when the Master turned to face the guard captain. Bandits they may be, but he knew that death by lightning was likely a terrible way to go. He would spare the people, if he could.

“Captain,” Magister Tarsian announced, “Gather your men. I will lead the assault; use our bowmen to take out the Templars first. Taardathras, you will have the wagons circle up and keep the servants in line. If the wagons are attacked I grant permission to use Arcturus to ensure nothing is destroyed. Get moving; I don’t want any bandits to scout us out and prepare an ambush while we sit here like ducks in the road.”

He snapped his fingers, and the camp burst into activity. The servants, who had been listening to the conversation, urged the horses and bronto pulling the carriages into a circle. Taardathras came over and unlocked the door to the wagon. Arcturus slipped out onto the rough paving stones, rubbing his hands together nervously as the Tal-Vashoth led him into the center of camp. “Be prepared, Arcturus. At the first sign of danger, transform. Kill any strangers you see; they can and will burn the wagons and slaughter all of us without your help.” She commanded, and Arcturus nodded, mindlessly scratching at his own palms.

After a good half an hour, the Magister and the guards were ready, and the servants were positioned as best they could outside of the wagons. The tension was high as Master Tarsian signaled to the guards and the whole group of them led their horses around the curve of the road up ahead. After the hoofbeats faded, Arcturus and the others sat in tense silence, broken only by faint birdsong and the rustling of the trees.

* * *

In the end, Arcturus was relieved to find that he had not been needed. Master Tarsian had dismantled the barricade piece by piece before raining fire and blood upon the bandits, backed up by the captain and his guards. They had returned from the battle an hour later, covered in gore and the men ready to celebrate. Taardathras locked Arcturus back into his caged wagon, the servants straightened out the caravan, and Tarsian returned to his carriage.

Arcturus watched as the wagons passed the broken bits of the barricade, which resembled a pile of dirt and rubble. There were puddles of blood on the roadside, but he could see no bodies in sight. It unsettled him, and Arcturus curled up under his furs until the nausea passed.

They pitched camp that night a ways down the road in a break in the treeline. An old firepit lay in the center of the small clearing, and the grass there had already been trampled down. Another group of travelers had obviously used this place recently. The off-duty guards celebrated their recent victory with drinks while the servants tended to themselves and the beasts. Arcturus received his meal, but neither Master Tarsian or Taardathras came to visit him. They were likely focused on other matters, but it still stung. Arcturus was used to one of the two talking with him every evening, even if it was just more tests.

  
Even with the tunic and breeches Master Tarsian provided, Arcturus was still freezing under the thin fur that served as his sleeping pallet. The fire was too far away from his cage to provide any warmth, though Arcturus took comfort in the light provided. His smaller body was considerably lacking in teeth and scales in which to defend himself, and without the comforting high walls of his canyon birthplace and the giant net overhead keeping both bandits and predators out, Arcturus was feeling overexposed. The thick bars of his cage provided small comfort. His back was exposed to the shadowed treeline, and it made him instinctively wary.

  
He had the feeling that something or someone was watching him from beyond the treeline, but even his keen eyes picked up nothing. Taardathras had already retired, and Master Tarsian was all the way across the camp. It was most likely his nerve. Arcturus bundled himself on the side of the cage closest to the fire, and reluctantly went to sleep.

* * *

A scream woke him in the middle of the night. Arcturus sat upright, clumsily blinking the blurriness from his eyes as he tried to take stock of the situation. There were harsh shouts coming from the woods; once Arcturus regained his vision, he could easily spot the attackers in the trees. There were dozens upon dozens of men, all dressed in various filthy clothing and brandishing weapons, streaming into the camp. The guards on that side were already dead, and as Arcturus watched, two of the men cut down one of the male servants trying to leave his tent. A few of them had torches, and soon some of the tents were ablaze. Who were they? Had Master Tarsian underestimated the bandits? There were screams echoing across the camp, and Arcturus looked as more bandits appeared on the other side. Master Tarsian appeared in the center of camp, and his voice carried over the cries and shouts of the attackers.

“To me!” He shouted, his hands glowing with magic. “Gather around me!”

He had to help! Arcturus clawed at the door to the cage, but Master Tarsian had designed it to hold someone of his strength; Arcturus couldn’t even put scratches onto the metal, so he was left shaking the bars futilely and snarling as the bandits streamed past him into the camp. The guards had abandoned the outer circle of tents, forming up around the main campfire with Master Tarsian in the middle. Tarsian was yelling something to the guards, his hands glowing a violent, brilliant red.

But even after the Magister started raining fire onto the bandits, more kept pouring out of the surrounding woods like a swarm of heavily-armed insects. Arcturus withdrew from the cage door as the bandits swarmed closer, some of them looking in his direction as they advanced on the camp. One of the unshaven unclean bandits stuck his arm through the bars, and then withdrew it with a shout as Arcturus’ teeth clicked shut in the space where his hand had been seconds before. The bandit laughed nastily, and banged on the cage with the haft of his crude mace.

“Secure the loot!” He screamed to his companions, and Arcturus growled in frustration as bandits moved to the front of the wagon, where the horses were tethered. A huge mass of bandits was already taking down Master Tarsian’s guards, the insane amount of numbers substituting for the bandits’ lack of skill.

As the bandits slapped the horses into action, Arcturus roared in frustration as the cage began to pull away from the camp. Before the cage left the circle of tents, Arcturus caught a glimpse of Master Tarsian’s face, lit up by the light of the fire. The man was absolutely soaked in blood; a red wave of the liquid flowed around him like a living scarlet ribbon, lashing out at anyone who came too close.

The Magister looked up, and they made eye contact as Arcturus lunged against the bars again, trying futilely to escape. Tarsian looked afraid and resigned, but then he turned back to the battle at hand, waving his hand and lashing out at the attacking bandits with waves of blood. Then the wagon was out of the camp and moving quickly onto the main road.

“Caddock! Connor! Take him back to the main camp and secure him with the rest of the profits! We’ll return to help fight the mage!” The bandit who had reached through the bars shouted, and the men around the cage roared an agreement. The two largest men took the horse’s leads while the rest of the bandits turned around and headed back towards the shouts and screams from Master Tarsian’s camp. Once the others had gone, the two bandits shot each other nasty grins, and then led the horses off of the main road.

Arcturus felt the skin on his back ripple, and gritted his teeth. He couldn’t transform; not here, not when he was still caged. He would have to make a break for the woods when they pried open the cage door. Then they would all pay, and he could return to help Taardathras and Master Tarsian. He couldn’t let them die. Arcturus touched the brand on the back of his neck, fingers tracing over the raised scar tissue. The Master may consider him nothing more than a slave, but Arcturus had no one else to take care of him. His own mother had forced him to leave the nest, and then she had treated him like a potential rival, roaring to scare him off. Master Tarsian had clothed him, taught him, and fed him. Taardathras had raised him practically from birth. He had to repay the two of them somehow.

  
The wagon bounced violently on the forest path, and Arcturus was jostled and tossed from one corner of the cage to the other. His hair was falling around him in clumps, and his teeth were already replaced with fangs. He had minutes, if that, and he needed to be out of the cage by the time the final stage of the transformation took place. Arcturus grinned as he felt electricity tingle in his throat.

Soon, soon! He could see what Taardathras meant, earlier. These men wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat, if they determined that he wasn’t worth any kind of profit. His back arched violently, and Arcturus swallowed his scream. The muscles for the wings were starting to come in.

The bandit camp came rushing into view. A large fire crackled in the center of a ruined tower, and ramshackle huts were set up around the scattered stonework. There were piles of debris stacked everywhere, and a few men rose to their feet as the horses ploughed into the area, led by Arcturus’ would-be captors.

“Get the mage out here!” Caddock roared, reining the horses to a halt. “We need someone to melt the lock!”

“What have you got there?” One of the bandits asked, stepping closer. “What’s under those furs?”

“A pretty little elf boy!” Caddock replied, and Arcturus growled at the man’s tone. He would pay for that, tonight. How many others were stuck in his position, only without his secret? Judging by the accompanying cheers of the other men, they too knew what someone like Arcturus met. Taardathras had taught him about slavers, and how trash like Caddock could turn a profit by it. Master Tarsian had protested, but Arcturus was grateful for the lesson.  

He wouldn’t feel guilty for what he was about to do.

A man in robes came out of the ruined tower, and made his way over to the caged wagon to the collective cheers of the gathered bandits. The mage’s hands glowed red as he turned his attention to the padlock, and after a few minutes the metal grew hot enough to weaken. Caddock stepped up, a thick hatchet in hand, and took a great swing at the red-hot metal. With loud encouragement from the rest of the men, Caddock swung the hatchet a few times until the padlock popped off and fell to the ground.

“Come here, pretty,” Caddock called, swinging open the wagon door. As soon as the man took a step up onto the wagon Arcturus made his move. He burst out from under his furs, ducking under the bandit’s arm and practically tackling him from the wagon. Once Caddock was on the ground Arcturus picked himself up and sprinted into the treeline, ignoring the shouts of the bandits behind him. A fireball whizzed past his shoulder, but Arcturus ducked away from the mage and fled deeper into the woods.

The skin on his back was shredded open, and he could feel the beginnings of his wings begin to form. Arcturus laughed as he burst out into a small clearing; this was perfect. The men’s voices behind him were faint; he had enough time to transform. He collapsed to his knees as the rest of his skin peeled off, to be replaced with the armored scales. His wings stretched out to their full length, and Arcturus was becoming larger and larger and larger.

A few minutes later, when the mage and a few bandits came into the clearing, a roaring Gamordan Stormrider met them head on with a mouthful of lightning. Arcturus would get back to Master Tarsian soon, but first he had to deal with the remaining bandits. He roared loudly, making the trees around him shake, and took flight. The bandit camp wouldn’t know what hit it.

 


	5. Missing in Action

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have art! We now have more beautiful pieces of Arcturus! Commissions from co-author demihawke and a fan of Ataashi;Kadan named Danpee (who is on tumblr and is amazing!)
> 
> [ Demihawke drew Arcturus! ](http://demihawke.tumblr.com/post/132896879523/a-sketch-commission-for-ace-hawke-of-our)  
> [ Danpee drew Arcturus! ](http://danpee.tumblr.com/post/131649542297/sketch-commission-for-ace-hawke-of-their-and)

The first bandits that caught up with him were met with a blast of lightning, their flesh fried and charred instantaneously. Arcturus roared triumphantly, his wings stretching out in the clearing, and took off, ascending over the tops of the trees. He was met with screams as he crashed down into the main bandit camp, the main bonfire crushed under a huge clawed foot.

Arcturus beat his wings, and breathed pure electricity over the stunned men and women.

The cheap cloth of the tents ignited easily, and the picketed horses began to panic and uproot their tethers. Within seconds, pandemonium raged across the camp as the animals stampeded into the pitched tents, trampling bandits and knocking crates and other supplies over in their haste to escape. Arcturus roared over the shrill neighing of the horses and the bandits' screams. He could see Caddock in the center of the camp, his mouth open in a fearful, outstretched ‘O’. His vision went red, and without another thought he sprung into action. Arcturus lunged towards the man, his wings flapping, and brought his front paw smashing down on the disgusting man. Caddock went down without a single scream, his armor crunching under Arcturus’ claws. Arcturus roared in satisfaction, his blood thrumming with the thrill of the kill. The man deserved far worse, but now the man had experienced the same level of fear as those he had previously enslaved.

By now most of the bandits were dead from the panic or fleeing deeper into the forest where Arcturus could not reach them, not without setting the forest on fire. Arcturus breathed out one more round of lightning, frying the remaining unfortunates before he took off again. He soared above the forest, retracing his path back to the main road and Master Tarsian’s encampment.

All was silent up ahead; all of the noise Arcturus could hear was coming from the ravaged bandit camp. The of shouts and screams he had heard from the wagon earlier were utterly gone; Arcturus hoped that his master had overcome the difficulty of so many bandits. Master Tarsian was a Magister, a mage of great power and talent. Taardathras had explained the intricacies of Tevinter politics; surely Master Tarsian had weathered more than one attempt on his life? The man had traveled across Thedas for his research, and the Hissing Wastes, as Tarsian himself told Arcturus, was no place for the inexperienced.

He spotted the main road within minutes, the paving stones gleaming underneath the light of the two moons. Roaring, Arcturus sped towards the bright orange glow of the main campfire in the distance.

The camp was in shambles. Items were scattered all around the ground, crates smashed to splinters and sacks torn open. Most of the tents were either trampled to the ground or ripped to tatters; a few that were close to the main campfire were starting to ignite and smoulder. The whole site was riddled with dozens upon dozens of corpses, all of them twisted and bloody and still in the moonlight. Arcturus landed on the main road with an earth-shaking thud and raised the frills on his neck, lightning sparking in his mouth as he searched for any enemies. The camp was quiet; the only noises came from the whisper of cloth as the frayed remains of tents and flags stirred in a faint breeze and the crackle of the main campfire.

Nothing stirred at his entrance, and Arcturus’ heart sank. The lightning dissipated from his maw, and Arcturus tucked in his wings. He stepped through the camp as best he could given his size; he tried not to look at any of the faces of the bodies but instead at their clothing. He still recognized certain figures in the bloody carpet of people: the scout who had brought news of the blockade in the road, the pair of elven servants whom Arcturus helped with the wagons, and even the captain of the guard himself, his bloody face sticking out from the bottom of a pile of at least twelve bandit corpses. With a few large steps, Arcturus stood in front of the large campfire, which still burning strongly. From what last he saw, Master Tarsian was standing near the campfire while fighting off the horde of bandits.

Arcturus could certainly recognize Master Tarsian’s signature technique from the battle; the entire area around the fire was devoid of bodies and absolutely soaked in blood. Even the grass below his claws were stained all the way down to the soil in red, and the bodies around the campfire ring formed a wall of flesh that opponents would have to climb over in order to get to the Magister. Of Magister Tarsian himself, however, there was no sign; no body. The man was missing Arcturus lowered his head to the mess and tried to pick out the Magister’s scent, but if there was a scent it was absolutely buried beneath the stench of bodies and blood. There was no sign of any footprints in the bloody circle.

The only indication the Magister had been there was the man’s elaborate staff, carved out of some elaborate black wood and embossed with carved metal dragons. Arcturus gingerly picked up the staff in his jaws, and moved on. Beyond the wall of bodies, there was too much debris to detect anything. There was a scrap of white that may have been a piece of Tarsian’s robes draped over one of the bodies, but it could easily be a scrap of one of the ripped tents. Arcturus deposited the Master’s staff on the main road, and turned back to the grisly scene. He took a few deep breaths, and force his frills to fold back down.

There was only one way to be sure Master Tarsian wasn’t at the campsite; Arcturus took a few more breaths to ensure his dinner did not make a reappearance, and then he moved to the first body. The gender was indeterminable, but the corpse was wearing heavy silver armor. That wasn’t him, so Arcturus moved on to the next body with a grimace.

The moon was setting by the time he was done, and Arcturus felt like he had been running a marathon for a week. His claws were stained with blood, and no amount of rubbing them on the  grass got rid of the stain. His breakfast had made a reappearance under one of the trees, and Arcturus could only slump exhaustedly on a clean patch of grass and watch the moon sink lower and lower in the sky. Magister Tarsian was nowhere to be found. Taardathras was similarly missing, which gave Arcturus a sliver of hope. All of the horses and pack animals had scattered at the start of the battle; Arcturus had found their tether uprooted and saddles strewn about.

 

There were hoofprints leading in all directions, but that hardly mattered; Arcturus had no idea where he currently was in Orlais, as Taardathras had not seen fit to teach him how to read maps. He also had no idea of his master’s intentions, beyond returning to Tevinter. Master Tarsian had mentioned that there was a town located down the main road, but would the Master risk going there with the main bandit camp in the way?

Arcturus snorted angrily, and tucked his wings further in. He would wait here for Master Tarsian to return; the Magister would surely come back for him! Arcturus belonged to Master Tarsian; he was a valuable investment (Taardathras said so). He would simply wait, and then everything would return to normal with Tarsian in charge. Arcturus curled up tighter, pressed his nose to his tail, and tried to get some sleep. No one would disturb him for the night as a dragon except Master Tarsian. He screwed his eyes shut, and hoped his body would get the message. Arcturus hadn’t expected freedom so fast, nor so easily. What was he supposed to do, besides wait?

* * *

When Arcturus opened his eyes, the sun was overhead. He stared at the sky blearily, blinking a few times to clear the gunk from his eyes. He felt stiff all over; he hadn’t slept a full night in his original form since Master Tarsian had taken him from the nest. Arcturus uncurled himself, and stretched out his wings before he moved back to the main road.

 

The bodies at the campsite still laid there, and their stench had only increased overnight. Arcturus reared his head back as the breeze carried the smell towards him. There were dozens of crows circling overhead, and many more of the birds were already settled on the bodies. He was glad that he already lost his appetite; Arcturus didn’t feel up to throwing up again. Moving upwind, Arcturus looked over the scene again. He had seen death before in the Hissing Wastes, but not on this scale. The daylight just made it all… real. There was so much blood, and the bodies… Arcturus looked away. He had to do something about it. There were too many to bury, but...

 

Arcturus drew himself up to his full height, and faced the corpses once more. He growled, and Arcturus felt the electricity build up in his gut. The energy suffused through his being, and he roared as he could feel the magic build up in the back of his throat. He waited until the energy built up, and then he breathed outward instinctively. The electricity made his fangs tingle as lightning sprung from his mouth, covering the battlefield in crackling, purple energy. Within seconds, the tents began to smoke as the fabric caught fire. Minutes later, the fire started to spread to the dry grass and scattered debris, and then the whole camp was alight.

 

Arcturus moved around the side of the camp, breathing more lightning to ensure the whole place burned evenly. His heart felt heavy as the stench of burned meat filled the air, and his eyes were watering from the smoke. Once he was certain the fire wouldn’t spread further than the camp, Arcturus took wing. He flapped his wings and spiraled upward, circling slowly around the large column of smoke. Swatches of clouds dotted the sky above, and the road below became nothing but a thin grey line snaking its way through a dense emerald carpet. The smoke rose for hundreds of feet into the air; a beacon on such a clear, sunny day. Up in the air, there was nothing besides the rush of wind in his ears. Arcturus circled higher, and higher, trying not to think about the camp below. Instead, he turned his thoughts to the land below him.

 

He still had never seen as much green as what lay before him. The forest below stretched out further and further beneath his wings, and after a few minutes Arcturus could see the borders of the forest, and the brown of the desert in the distance. Turning the other way, Arcturus could see the main road leading to a small cluster of strange blocks. Taardathras had informed him that those blocks was the town Magister Tarsian set as their destination. Arcturus looked back down at the smoking camp, and then back at the town. It couldn’t hurt to check, could it? Arcturus folded his wings in, and he dived down towards the forest once more. He drew closer and closer to the main road, the wind shrieking past him as Arcturus let his weight pull him down.

 

At the last minute, he opened his wings again, and he roared happily as he ascended once more. His heart was pounding from the fall, and he felt adrenaline working its way through his body. Below him, the town was in sight, and Arcturus started to circle again. He maintained his height, and peered down at the buildings. He could spot the people below, but the street below was rapidly emptying. Arcturus growled; he couldn’t see the Magister or Taardathras below.

 

Perhaps if he got closer… Arcturus flew closer, until he was barely a hundred feet above the top of the tallest building. He circled again, his head stretched down to get the best look. The buildings were so fascinating to look at. The roofs were constructed with tiles of wood, layered on top of one another, and each house was painted a different hue.

 

The horses below him were rearing up and panicking, but Arcturus could still see that these horses were significantly less well off than Master Tarsian’s horses. Their coats were duller, and their manes were longer than those in the caravan. That meant nothing; Master Tarsian could still be staying at the inn or another building. Belatedly, Arcturus recalled Taardathras’ orders regarding his true form and alarming the humans… Oh. Whoops. No doubt the humans below would have spotted him, so it was too late. Surely, Master Tarsian would forgive him, considering the circumstances. Arcturus mentally cringed, but the damage was done. Since the street below was deserted, he could land and search for Tarsian in the houses.

The ground trembled when Arcturus landed, but otherwise the town remained undisturbed by his arrival. The horses were still and silent, but Arcturus could smell their fear. He moved forward towards the first of the buildings, but no doors opened. No one came out into the street. Arcturus’ heart sank. Perhaps Taardathras and Master Tarsian weren’t here after all.

 

Master Tarsian was never hesitant to let Arcturus know when he was displeased or angry; he should have left by now. The inn was down the street, so Arcturus moved as best he could through the small street, careful not to knock into any buildings with his wings or tail. The horses neighed shrilly as Arcturus passed them, and some of them reared, but none came loose from their hitching post. They calmed down some after Arcturus moved away, but Arcturus was focused elsewhere. He pressed his snout to the road and inhaled sharply, trying to pick up a scent.

He could smell the horses, as well as several dozen foreign scents, but there was no sign of Master Tarsian and Taardathras. He would try the inn, then.

  
Arcturus nosed at the sign to the inn, and he could tried to pick up something familiar. Taardathras smelled faintly of dragons, and Tarsian smelled of fire and blood. He knocked at the front door with his snout, and growled in frustration as he picked up nothing. Master Tarsian hadn’t been this way. Dejected, Arcturus turned away from the inn, and stared back towards the column of smoke. He didn’t know what to feel… On one hand, he was relieved the Magister wasn’t tormenting the villagers here (he had seen how Tevinter mage treated his servants and slaves… Taardathras had told Arcturus how he had been created. His father had been a slave). He had already broken Master Tarsian’s rules, and there were no consequences. Arcturus hadn’t been punished for what he had done, but he still felt lost.

Without Master Tarsian’s rules, Arcturus was unsure what he should do. The whole village smelt of fear, and there was no sign of Tarsian. He had probably scared the people currently hiding in the buildings with his antics. Guiltily, Arcturus retreated from the town, internally wincing as his horns scraped against the outside wall of the inn. He took off as soon as he was clear of the town, and flew back to the main camp as quickly as possible.

The smoke was clearing up by the time evening rolled around, and Arcturus watched from the crook of a tree. His tunic and pants were covered in dirt and ripped in several places, but the clothing still provided warmth from the rapidly cooling air. His stomach growled, but Arcturus couldn’t bring himself to move from his spot. He leaned against the branch he was seated on, the rough bark digging into his scaled cheek.

Arcturus’ blond hair was a tangled mess, and his hands were covered in dried blood and dirt. He felt filthy, but he still couldn’t bring himself to move from his spot. It shouldn’t have taken Master Tarsian more than a day to return back to the main campsite if he had planned on returning. The smoke from Arcturus’ fire had been a clear beacon for miles in each direction. Arcturus tucked his knees close to his body and rested his head on top of them to conserve warmth. The sun was starting to set, and he needed to find somewhere to sleep for the night. His stomach growled loudly, and Arcturus sighed. Another ten minutes… Just another ten minutes, and if Master Tarsian didn’t return, he would leave the campsite. Arcturus curled up against the trunk, and let his forehead rest on his knees. Just another ten minutes… His eyelids fluttered shut, and exhaustion took over. He was asleep in three.

* * *

 

 

It was the sound of hooves on stone that drew Arcturus out of his sleep. He stirred sleepily, and opened his eyes slowly. His neck and back ached from his uncomfortable position against the tree trunk, and his legs were cramping. He stretched out his arms and legs slowly, groaning softly as his joints cracked and popped. The sound of horses grew closer, and Arcturus froze. Could it be? He crawled down from his perch, dropping silently to the grass below. The horses came to a halt in front of the smoking remains of the camp as Arcturus peered around the trunk. His heart sank.

Fifty men in gleaming silver armor and silk were mounted in front of the smoking remains of the campsite, all armed to the teeth. A few of the knights flew the banner of Orlais, along with several personal banners that Arcturus didn’t recognize. Arcturus ducked back around the tree as several of the knights dismounted. “Monsieur Dupont, report,” One of the knights barked, and there was a rustling of armor before another one of the knights spoke up.

“The villagers reported that a dragon landed in the town shortly after the smoke was spotted. After it ate several of the horses, it supposedly flew back in this direction. Perhaps the high dragon has made this area her nesting grounds?” The knight reported, and the original knight snorted.

“It is most likely that the villagers were in league with the bandits we originally came for, and they tried to cover up their involvement when they heard we were coming!” The first knight scoffed, and clanked his way over to the still smoldering camp site. Arcturus peeked around the trunk again. The knights were all looking towards the two that were speaking, and so Arcturus crept along the tree line. The two speakers were standing one of the charred bodies, which still had a sword in it’s chest. The knight pulled out the sword, and brandished it at his comrade.

“Does this look like a dragon attack to you? Those fils des putains are trying to hide the evidence!” The Chevalier barked, and Arcturus flinched away. It sounded like the knight was a minute away from getting back on his horse and riding straight back to the village. This was his fault. Arcturus had brought trouble to the village he had already terrorized; he had to do something. The knight was still speaking, gesturing at the burned bodies, but Arcturus tuned it out as he crept further up the road.

He would have to leave; Master Tarsian hadn’t returned, and the knights would likely remain in the area once they saw him. The tension in Arcturus’ gut eased at the thought, and he picked up his pace. He was far enough away from the knights that he could afford to make some noise. Once he was safely out of sight, Arcturus shucked off his tunic and breeches, folding them carefully. He fell to his knees, and then the change started. Arcturus growled as his claws came in, and he tore at the grass beneath him as the pain started.

**  
** His stomach growled noisily, reminding Arcturus that he was still hungry. Maybe he could… Arcturus’ eyes glinted as he arched his back and his skin rippled violently. It was a bad idea. It was such a bad idea. The horses were barely armored, and it would be easy to rip off the gaudy ornaments. Surely one wouldn’t hurt? Arcturus grinned to himself as his teeth came in, and then he groaned as his wings expanded out from his back. Transforming always made his skin crawl and itch.

With a final snap, the last of the transformation took place, and Arcturus let out a loud roar to signal the knights. He had to make sure the knight’s horses scattered, grab one, and then he would find somewhere else. Maybe he could follow the main road elsewhere, and then Arcturus could figure out what he was going to do from there. For now… He roared again, and took wing.

 

The look on the knights’ faces when Arcturus appeared over the treeline was priceless. The leader of the knights scrambled towards his horse, but Arcturus was sweeping down. The horses reared and panicked, unseating several of the knights as they bolted down the road. Arcturus spat out lightning at the knights, aiming slightly to the left of the roads to avoid hitting anyone.

 

The Orlesian soldiers were shouting loudly, but several of the knights had drawn their bows and were nocking arrows as Arcturus swooped down. He had to get out, but not before he had one of the horses. Growling, Arcturus felt arrows pinging off of his armored stomach as he reached down and snatched up one of the horses in his claws. One his goal was achieved, Arcturus flapped his wings and soared away from the knights. Taking a bite out of his meal, Arcturus roared as he passed over the town, and then it was out of sight as he set his sights on the horizon on front of him. It was finally kicking in. He was free.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, your comments are what keep me going! If you appreciate what demihawke and I do, please drop a comment!


	6. Clan Lavellan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I apologize for this delay. I seriously intended to have an update by now, but my writing brain had other ideas. As of now, it is the day before Reading Period, which leads up to Finals Week of college. Also known as Hell Week, I will be dead to the world during this period and there will be no updates. Once that week is over, however, I will have a wonderful month to do updates, and I hope to do an update or two then! Thank you so much for your patience and understanding!

  
“Filthy knife ear!”  
  
Arcturus’ feet were bleeding. Every step sent jolts of agony through his knees, but he couldn’t stop or slow down. He clutched his worn backpack to his chest as he stumbled through the underbrush, ignoring the pain in his feet and cheek that throbbed painfully with every step.

The sun was setting in front of him, casting long shadows among the tightly packed trees. Blood dribbled down his face and neck as Arcturus glanced behind him, his breath coming in quick, harsh pants. He could barely see three of his pursuers behind him in the evening light, not to mention more that were out of sight. He was putting distance on them.

Arcturus gritted his teeth as his feet violently protested the increase in pace, but he couldn’t afford to be caught. He needed the bread and supplies in his pack. If he could get far enough ahead, he could scale a tree and wait until the cover of night before he could transform and get away from the wretched town.

Without warning, the ground vanished ahead of him. Arcturus barely managed to stop himself on the edge by clinging to a tree branch, but he still leaned dangerously over the drop. The cliff was at least forty feet above the forest floor below, and the slope was nothing but smooth stone and stubborn weeds.

The shouting was getting louder behind him. Arcturus scrambled away from the edge, and then glanced from side to side, looking for another route. Did he have time to transform?  
  
The question was answered as one of the angry villagers burst from the brush not ten feet to Arcturus’ left, brandishing a rusty sword. They made eye contact for one brief, terrifying moment, before something heavy slammed into Arcturus’ back.

His grip on the tree branch was knocked loose, and Arcturus had a second of pure clarity before the unknown force pushed him over the edge of the cliff.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tucked his head down to the pack clutched to his chest as the he felt the wind whistle past his ears. This is going to hurt.

He hit every rock and outcrop on the way down. The impact drove the air from his lungs, and the world spun violently behind his eyes. Arcturus felt bones break and his side torn open as he rolled down the cliff, and he had lost all feeling in his extremities when he finally came to a stop at the base of the slope.

He was nothing but a large knot of pain, the sensation pulsing through his body in time with his heartbeat. Arcturus opened his eyes to a blurred green impression of the forest backdrop, and he bit his tongue the moment he tried to move.

Everything was agony, and the villager’s voices above him became little more than annoying buzzing under a massive amount of white noise. He was supposed to be running from the voices, but Arcturus couldn’t remember _why. Something to do with bread?_

Arcturus tried to take a deeper breath, but he was certain his ribs were broken, as well as the arm currently wedged between his chest and the ground.

Every movement made the white noise in the background grow louder and louder, until it rang in his ears. That felt important somehow, but the forest was blurring away in front of Arcturus’ eyes. Maybe he should try to get up-

 

Arcturus faded in and out for an indeterminate amount of time. Each time he opened his eyes, the light had dwindled further into darkness. Soon it would be night, and the temperature was dropping.

Groaning, Arcturus managed to face the other side of the forest. The white noise was getting louder again, and his side felt sticky and cold. There was a potion from the village in his pack. If only he could reach it… 

Arcturus sucked in a breath, and inched his non-broken arm through the grass and dirt. The air froze in his chest as his entire side protested the movement, but Arcturus persisted. His fingers and toes were beginning to go numb, and the white noise drowned out the forest background noise.

“Kaffas,” Arcturus breathed out as his fingers hooked around the straps of his pack. He tugged weakly at the bulk, dragging the precious item closer and closer until it was resting next to his face. He struggled with the buckles for a moment, and then the backpack’s contents spilled out over the grass.

There was the bread taken earlier from the village, as well as a few other carefully wrapped packages from the market stalls. Arcturus managed a weak chuckle as he nudged the packages aside, trying to touch the smooth feel of glass. It took him a minute, and then Arcturus pulled out the small red vial. Yes! Slowly, agonizingly, Arcturus brought it to his lips and pulled out the stopper with his teeth.

Most of the elfroot potion spilled out onto his lips and chin, but Arcturus managed to get a few good mouthfuls of the vile stuff. As the potion started to take effect, he let the vial slip out of his trembling fingers. He was exhausted, and it was so cold. Belatedly, Arcturus realized that his whole body was shivering.

_“Assan, look! Over there!”_

_“Fenedhis lasa! What’s wrong with him?”_

Footsteps moved closer, and Arcturus groaned softly, his hands trembling. He tried to look up at the two speakers, but his lids refused to budge. He was so cold. With a small sigh, Arcturus allowed himself to fall back into blissful, warm unconsciousness.

* * *

There was a hand on his forehead. Why was someone touching him? Why did he feel so hot? Arcturus could feel a thick, scratchy blanket tucked around him. There was a faint noise in the background that he instinctively knew was a voice, but he couldn’t make out any words. What’s going on? Where was he? It was too hot to think.

He groaned and squirmed, trying to dislodge the blanket off of what he assumed was a bed. As soon as he tried to sit up, however, Arcturus gasped in pain as his entire chest area protested.

Hands steadied Arcturus, holding him down and tucking the edges of the blanket underneath his body. The hand on his forehead moved to tuck strands of loose, sweaty hair away from his face.

 _“Atisha, da’len, atisha. You are safe here,”_ A low voice murmured above him, and the hand moved from his forehead to his cheek.

Arcturus turned toward the hand petting him, relishing how cool it felt against his fevered skin. Something smooth was pressed against his lips, and a hand tipped his head back. Cool liquid flooded his mouth, and Arcturus swallowed it instinctively.

 

The drink had a pleasant minty aftertaste, and he accepted the next mouthful eagerly. He had not realized how thirsty he was, but the hand on the back of his neck prevented him from guzzling the flavored water.

 _“Where did you find him? How was he in such an abysmal state?”_ The owner of the hands holding up his head asked. Arcturus took another long drink of water, and sighed happily. He wasn’t burning up so terribly now, and his throat was no longer dry.

 _“We found him at the base of the cliffs near the shemlen village, Keeper. His feet were bleeding, and it looked like he fell off the edge and tumbled down the cliff. When we brought him back, we had to avoid a party of shems from the village. Taren was hunting near the shems, and he says that he says many of them were heading off into the woods earlier with tools and swords, shouting something about hunting down a ‘thieving knife-ear’,”_ Another voice nearby spat, and the voice above Arcturus sighed.

 _“We’ll have to be careful, Assan. We cannot afford to let the humans know if this is the one they are searching for. I do not plan on letting the shemlen have him; he may not be Dalish, but he is still one of the People, and barely older than a child besides,”_ The voice above him murmured, and then Arcturus’ head was lifted up higher into the air.

 _“I don’t see why we should risk our lives for a flat-ear,”_ The voice called Assan muttered angrily, and Arcturus felt the arm holding his head up tense.

 _“I know your feelings on the matter, Assan,”_ The voice above Arcturus snapped, “ _but I doubt he had little choice in the matter. Look.”_ Arcturus felt his head tipped over his chest, and the hand parted the hair covering the back of his neck. There was a sharp inhale, and then Arcturus was laid back against the pillow.

Although the cloth stank of some kind of animal, it was a soft surface after weeks of sleeping on hard stone or thin cloth. Arcturus snuggled his cheek closer, and sighed happily as the hands left him alone. He was so exhausted; he didn’t even have the energy to open his eyelids. As the voices continued to speak above him, Arcturus sighed happily and drifted off back into unconsciousness.

* * *

It was dark when Arcturus opened his eyes to see a red sky. He blinked slowly for a few minutes, trying to get his bearings while he felt like the world was slowly revolving around him. Once the world settled down, Arcturus sat up and glanced around at his surroundings. He was in some kind of large, crimson tent, illuminated by campfires flickering around it. The tent was filled with long tables with various jars and bandages laid out in neat rows. There was a low murmur of indistinct voices in the distance, likely in the direction of the campfires. Everything smelled like some kind of animal Arcturus had never encountered before. The scent was everywhere, and Arcturus sneezed a couple of times as his nose protested. 

How had he gotten here? Arcturus rubbed his forehead shakily, brushing aside his curtain of blonde hair with his non-aching hand. He could remember fleeing the village, running through the forest, and then… a cliff? Arcturus remembered a brief moment of panic, and then nothing else. Had something happened?

Scrunching his nose, he shut his eyes and slumped back against the pillows behind him. His feet were throbbing faintly; Arcturus recalled that they had been bleeding when he fled the villagers in the forest. He had been running and gaining distance on the angry humans, and then there had been a cliff. Arcturus had caught himself, then there was the other villager, and then…

 _Oh._ Arcturus stared down at his lap, heart pounding. How had he survived? The potion would have kept him alive for the night, but he had been so sure the villagers would find him and finish him off that he would have no time to crawl away and try to transform.

Now he had no idea where he was, except that he was lying on some kind of table swaddled in blankets. His face and chest were swathed in bandages, and his left arm was splinted and slung against his shoulder to take the weight off of it. Arcturus’ cheek was swollen, and hot to the touch. He inhaled shakily, and pushed the blankets off with his right hand.

No matter who it was who found him, he had to get out of here. He would heal faster when he returned to his regular form, and fly far away from the wretched village.

His body, however, had other ideas. The pain increased tenfold as soon as Arcturus moved, and he had to stop in order to catch his breath and slow his heartbeat.

“ _Fasta vass_ ,” Arcturus hissed through gritted teeth as he clutched his side. It hurt like nothing else, but now his feet were now touching the ground. Using his good hand, Arcturus shakily pushed himself to his feet. He swayed heavily, and nearly fell back on the table as his legs shook violently, threatening to give out.

Stubbornly, Arcturus let go of the the table, and tried to take a shaky step. His legs crumpled beneath him, and Arcturus cried out as he landed on the packed dirt floor, the impact sending waves of pain through his broken arm and ribs. He blacked out momentarily, and when he woke again he could hear footsteps moving towards the tent.

Arcturus tried to rise to his knees, but his right arm was shaking too hard to support his weight. He curled it loosely around his torso, and turned his head to face the entrance to the tent.

The tent flap parted, and the tip of an arrow materialized from the darkness beyond. Transfixed, Arcturus froze as a grim, scarred ginger elf stepped through into the tent, utterly silent besides the tiniest groan of the bowstring. Cold brown eyes stared him down for a few seconds, until Arcturus was forced to look away. His heart hammered in his chest.

“That is unnecessary, Assan,” A voice echoed from outside the tent, and moments later a carved wooden staff pushed aside the tent flap and another elf emerged. She was clearly far older than the ginger, with gray temples and a lined face. She tapped the other elf’s bow, and the man lowered it slowly, almost regretfully.

“He is no threat, da’len. The poor boy can barely keep himself upright, let alone pose any threat,” She remarked, and then walked over to Arcturus.

“Who are you?” Arcturus hissed as the woman knelt beside him and extended her hand over his chest. He felt a distinct tingling, and then her hands were enveloped in soothing green light.

The pain in his ribs started to ease, but Arcturus still couldn’t rise to his knees. The elven woman smiled at him, and then turned to the male still standing in the entryway.

“Assan, come help me get him back on the table,” The elven woman snapped, hoisting Arcturus up by his uninjured shoulder.

Assan finally relented, slipping the arrow back in a quiver and shouldering the bow before he knelt on Arcturus’ other side. Together, the two elves managed to lift him up back on his feet, and then set him back down on the table.

“Lay down, da’len,” The older elf clucked, and Arcturus obeyed warily, watching as the two of them started checking his injuries. The woman ran a glowing hand over his leg, torso, and left arm before gently probing the bandages. She nodded, and the ginger elf stepped back, folding his arms.

“You are among friends, da’len,” The older woman said, gesturing at the tent. “Our hunters found you at the bottom of the cliff and managed to stabilize you before the shemlen from the village circled around. Why were they searching for you?”

Arcturus’ heart sank, and he stared down at his lap. “I went to the village because I had run out of food,” He murmured softly, his jaw aching. “I had enough money for supplies, but half of the people in the village refused to sell. Eventually I found a human willing, but I must have insulted him somehow. As soon as I tried to leave town, the men set on me, and I had to flee into the woods. I got to the cliff, and then something hit me from behind, and you know the rest.”

The older elf nodded. “The shemlen in Orlais are split in their treatment of elves; they usually leave Dalish Clans alone. You need to be more careful, child.”

Arcturus nodded shakily, and then stared up at the older elf. “What now?” He asked hesitantly, wary of the answer.

Did they want payment for their rescue? All of his coin had been spent on the food and clothes from the village, and he wouldn’t reveal his true form to these people, no matter who they were.

The older elf smiled. “My name is Istimaethoriel, of Clan Lavellan, and my friend here is Assan. As Keeper, I will not turn away one of our People, even if they are not of the Dalish. If you will permit it, I will have you travel with us until my First returns from her journey. I do not have her talent for healing, so she will be able to use her magic to fix your arm and ribs completely. Then you will be free to continue your journey.”

Assan turned his face away and grumbled something into his fist. Arcturus could only pick up the words “waste of resources,” but Istimaethoriel turned to face him sharply. She spoke something in a language Arcturus couldn’t understand, and Assan stared down at his feet in rebuke.

“I apologize for Assan, but his primary job is to feed and supply the clan,” Istimaethoriel told him, and Arcturus nodded shakily. He settled back down on the table, and let the Keeper draw the blankets back over him. He felt guilty, draining resources away from the clan.

“Is there any way I could pay you back?” Arcturus asked softly, and Assan chuckled. The Keeper smiled indulgently.

“Perhaps, da’len,” She said, and then laid her hand on his brow. “What is your name?”

Arcturus looked up at her in surprise. “Arcturus,” He said, and from across the room Assan raised an eyebrow in surprise. Istimaethoriel also looked strangely at him, but made no further comment. Her hand lit up with magic once more, and Arcturus found himself to be invariably sleepy.

“Rest now, and regain your strength. Welcome to Clan Lavellan, Arcturus.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the short update, but please stay with me! Your comments and kudos are greatly appreciated, and keep me motivated in these times of stress!


	7. The Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Holidays! The lovely and precious demihawke (who I got to see over Christmas!!!!) made some gorgeous art of everyone's favorite dragon, Arcturus:  
> [Arcturus!](http://i.imgur.com/0JdpsnT.jpg)

His ribs and arm were on fire. The rough blankets beneath him were soaked with sweat as Arcturus stared up at the roof of the tent, his breath coming in harsh, quick gasps. Every breath was painful, and Arcturus had barely slept. His eyelids felt like they were weighed down with stones, but sleep eluded him.

What time was it? With great difficutly, Arcturus managed to turn his face towards the left side of the tent. He could see the weak rays of the morning sun shining through the gap between the tent wall and the ground, and outside Arcturus could hear the sounds of the Dalish camp coming to life.

Breakfast would come soon, but he felt too miserable for food. Keeper Istimaethoriel had not reappeared after her initial greeting late last night. Arcturus wracked his brains to his knowledge of the Dalish, but Taardathras had not covered anything besides the bare minimum about the nomad elves.

All he knew was that the Dalish hated outsiders, and that the Keeper was considered to be the head of the clan. Istimaethoriel welcomed him personally, so Arcturus hoped the elves were not going to be hostile. He was at their mercy until his ribs and arm finally healed.

Voices approached the tent. Arcturus could recognize the Keeper’s tone, but not any of her words. She was speaking to another, and as they came closer to his tent Arcturus recognized Assan’s distinct snarl. The hunter clearly disapproved of Arcturus, although for the life of him Arcturus couldn’t understand why. A few seconds later, sun flooded the tent as the flap was pushed aside. Assan entered first, followed closely by the Keeper. Both of the elves looked grim, and Assan was sporting a fresh bruise on his right cheek.

“The shemlen have started combing the woods for you,” Assan growled, his hand touching his right cheek as he started to pace in front of Arcturus’ table. “They’ve begun to lurk around the borders of our camp, asking if we’ve seen a ‘blonde haired green eyed elven thief, severely injured’ around the forest. They have rallied up a band of soldiers and demanded we turn out the thief if we are hiding him.”

Arcturus’ eyes widened, and he propped himself up carefully on one arm. He was helpless here, lying half naked beneath a thin blanket and too pained to move.

“Wh-what are you going to do then?” Arcturus stammered, clutching his ribs as he tried to sit up fully. The skin on his back rippled violently. He could try to transform- the shock of it might scare off both elves until he could fly away, secret be damned. His heart pounded rapidly in his chest as Assan’s hand twitched near the quiver of arrows at his side.

The Keeper strode forward, throwing her hand out to stop Assan’s movement. “What Assan has not said,” she spoke sternly, “is that I have delayed them for the moment. I told them I would speak to my people, and as we have a standing agreement with the local Duke, the soldiers refrained on entering the camp until the Duke’s say so. We have little time, da’len.”

Istimaethoriel knelt by Arcturus’ side, and raised her hands over his ribs and injured arm.

“Normally I would allow the bone to begin the healing process on its own and settle before I start mending the damage, so that the bones do not heal incorrectly, but in this case there is no time,” She stated, clucking her tongue violently as her hands began to glow a bright, calming blue.

Immediately, the pain in Arcturus’ side eased off, and his breathing suddenly became easier. He took a few deep breaths, clutching his arm as the Keeper healed it. Arcturus flexed his hand gently as the magic took away the pain as well as the damage from his fall. Within seconds, he felt better, albeit still extremely sore.

“There,” The Keeper said, standing up and brushing down the front of her robes. “I have mended it as best as I can, da’len.”

She helped him off of the table with one arm slung over his back, while Assan continued his frantic pacing. Arcturus looked up at her as Assan tore the tent flap to one side. He blinked against the influx of harsh daylight, and instinctive threw up a hand to block it.

“Keep your head down, and don’t attract attention, flat-ear,” Assan hissed in Arcturus’ ear, shoving his hand back down against his side. “The shemlen surround the entire camp. One wrong noise, one wrong move, and you’ll kill us all.”

The Keeper strode ahead as Assan took her place at Arcturus’ side, issuing orders in rapid elven. Instantly, the camp came to life. While Istimaethoriel spoke to a few of the armed elves,  Arcturus was bundled into a small tent, and a small dark-skinned elf with graying hair slid a rough brown tunic over his bandaged chest. Another elf shoved Arcturus’ hair into a tight bun, and then shoved a decorated green hood over his head. The Keeper reappeared outside of the tent as Assan shoved him outside, and clicked her tongue at him.

“It will do, for a disguise,” She said, “Quickly, da’len, follow Assan. He will lead you to a place the human hunters cannot find, and you will wait there until one of our hunters can retrieve you. The humans will search the camp soon, and I cannot allow you to endanger the clan by remaining here.”

“I-I understand,” Arcturus murmured, rubbing his hands up and down his hands. The tunic, while made out a rough material, was still warm and comfortable, and the hood blocked out most of the sun. The Keeper smiled wanly at him, and patted his shoulder.

“I will not abandon one of our own to the humans, not for a perceived crime,” She said, and then beckoned to Assan. As Assan tugged on Arcturus’ good arm, a red-haired elf ran up to Istimaethoriel.

“Keeper!” The woman cried, almost in tears, “Have you seen Elgara? She was playing with the other children not half an hour ago, but when I looked she had vanished! I searched the tent, but she wasn’t there! She even left her doll, and she never leaves anywhere without it!”

Istimaethoriel frowned harshly, and then turned to Assan. “Assan, keep eye out for Elgara while you escort Arcturus. She may have wandered off. Ghilan, alert the other hunters, and start a search of the entire camp. We cannot afford to lose a child, not today!” She barked, and Assan grunted his assent as he tugged harshly on Arcturus’ good arm, leading him away from the camp and into the relative quiet of the large, mossy trees.

“Stay close to me, flat ear,” Assan whispered harshly, tugging down Arcturus’ hood farther as they walked. “Stay quiet, stay low, and try not to step on any branches. Once you are in the hiding place, remain in place until I return for you. The shemlen searched this part of the forest with dogs. It’s your best place at present.”

“Thank you,” Arcturus whispered, his eyes glued to the ground as he tried (in vain) to avoid all the crackling dead leaves and small twigs underfoot. He mostly succeeded, but every look Assan shot him when Arcturus failed at stealth made him cringe. It wasn’t his fault; Arcturus was used to the soft hiss of hot sand underfoot, and the scorching sun overhead.

He could hide in the shadows of dunes and the stone outcroppings, but the forest was too close together. Anyone could be hiding behind the next tree or fallen log, lying in wait for an ambush. In the desert, Arcturus could see anyone approaching for miles.

He looked up from his feet, and glanced around the seemingly empty forest. The cries of birds echoed from the tree canopy above, and leaves seemed to rustle from every direction.

“H-how much further?” Arcturus whispered as loudly as he dared. Assan tugged him away from an especially large stick on the ground, and gestured towards where the trees were growing in thicker density. Between the branches, Arcturus caught a glimpse of something huge and brown.

“Not much farther,” Assan gruntled, and shoved Arcturus forward. “Now pick up the pace. Can you climb a tree?”

“I-I think so,” Arcturus stammered. He had climbed rocks before, when Master Tarsian had given him permission to wander a small ways out of the camp under Taardathras’ supervision. Surely a tree couldn’t be too difficult, right? Assan gave him a dubious glance, but the other elf did not comment further. There was a loud crunch of leaves off to the far left, and Assan cursed quietly in elven.

“ _Fehendis_! Someone’s approaching! Get into the trees, now!” Assan hissed quietly, and broke into a sprint, pulling violently at Arcturus’ good arm. Arcturus stumbled after him as the crunching noise grew louder, and they disappeared into the thick branches and tree trunks. Once they were in the cover of the trees, Assan abandoned all pretense at stealth.

“You see that branch up there?” He hissed, pointing up at a thick branch on the giant tree trunk that hung about three feet over Arcturus’ head. “I’ll give you a boost up to it. From there, make your way up the trunk until you are in the first layer of the canopy. Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t make a sound until I can come back and signal the all-clear. Is that understood? If you disobey and get caught, I will shed no tears for you. You have brought nothing but trouble for Clan Lavellan, even if it was not by your own hand.”

Assan knelt down on the ground, and offered Arcturus his cupped hands. Behind them, there were raised voices as whoever it was got closer and closer. Arcturus stepped into Assan’s hands, and the elf threw him upward with a soft grunt. He barely managed to touch the branch with his hands and instead dangled there awkwardly.

“You’re heavier than you look,” Assan grunted, and lifted his hands up as a stepping stool once more. Arcturus placed his foot in the elf’s hands and kicked up his other leg over the tree branch, heaving the rest of himself up. Once Arcturus could stand up on the branch, Assan unshouldered his bow and nocked an arrow from his quiver.

Arcturus watched as the elf prowled forward, his bare feet making no noise as he moved across the forest ground. His green and brown clothing blended well into the forest background, and soon Arcturus lost sight of him. The other elf’s movement was enviable, and Arcturus was distracted for several moments as the place where Assan disappeared--a pair of shrubs-- trembled slightly, but after the first human stepped into view Arcturus realized that it was time to move.

As quietly as he could, Arcturus hoisted himself up onto the next highest tree branch that looked like it could take his weight. He felt inexplicably safer after climbing, although he wasn’t sure why; although Arcturus was now out of reach, he was still completely visible to anyone who looked in his direction.

He kept his movements as quiet and small as possible while praying that the men (who were carrying swords and bows now) wouldn’t see him as he climbed higher and higher into the large tree.

 _“Je ne vois personne ici. ”_ One of the men shouted, and then Arcturus heard a sharp whistle.

_“Chevalier!”_

There was a loud bark, and a large brown hound bounded into view, its stump of a tail wagging madly.

 _“Allez, Chevalier! Vas-y!”_ The man ordered, and the dog barked again before putting its nose to the ground. Arcturus hauled himself up onto another branch, and prayed as the dog began to trot towards his tree. He was high enough up that the humans could not longer see him, but the dog could definitely smell him out and trap him up here. Arcturus crouched behind a tangle of branches, and peered out from between the leaves.

The dog started sniffing around the base of the tree, and the humans follow eagerly. Arcturus froze when the dog let out an aggressive bark, and the humans dashed over.

 _“Qu’est-ce que tu sens, Chevalier?”_ The dog’s owner barked, and the dogs lifted up its muzzled and howled. Arcturus heard the quiet _shing_ of swords being unsheathed and the twang of bow strings. The dog then bounded away from the base of the tree, it’s nose pressed against the ground as it followed Assan’s trail in the opposite direction. The humans chased after the dog, crashing noisily through the underbrush and quickly vanishing from sight. Soon, all Arcturus could hear were faint crashes and distant barks.

  
Assan could handle himself from what Arcturus had seen, and was no doubt already back at the Dalish camp. If the human trackers followed Assan’s trail, the clan would claim that Assan (with his distinct flame-colored hair and markings) was simply hunting in the woods. Once even the noises faded into the background cadence of the forest, Arcturus heaved a sigh of relief. 

Now all he had to do was wait. Surely it wouldn’t take too long, right?

* * *

 

The moon was shining directly down into the trees by the time Arcturus decided to get down from the tree. His back and legs were cramping from the uncomfortable angle the tree branch forced him in, and Arcturus’ stomach was grumbling dangerously. His hands and toes were starting to feel numb, and he was ready to find a clearing and wait out the night in his original form. His shoulder and ribs ached, but as long as Arcturus didn’t try to fly he was sure it would be fine.

He rubbed his hands together to warm his fingers and then started his descent down. Once Arcturus was on the ground, he stuffed his hands inside his tunic to keep them warm and looked in the direction back towards the camp. He needed to eat something, badly.

There had to be a clearing around here somewhere. Arcturus could just transform, take down a deer, and then settle back down near the tree and wait for someone from the clan. Perfect. Shivering, Arcturus stumbled through the trees, trying to make note of any distinct landmarks to mark his path back to the large tree. He couldn’t see past the canopy of leaves, so trying to spot it above the treeline was out of the question.

After five minutes of walking, Arcturus broke through the trees to find a decent sized clearing on soft, grassy earth. He inhaled deeply, and walked to the center of the clearing. Perfect. He slipped off the brown tunic, hood, and his pants, laying them out on the edge of the clearing. Arcturus wasn’t sure if Clan Lavellan wanted them back, so he assumed it was best to be safe. It was freezing, but once Arcturus transformed he would be warm again. Kneeling on the soft grass, Arcturus took another deep breath and arched his back.

  
The pain was familiar, almost comforting as his skin and hair fell away and the protection of scales took their place. When Arcturus opened his eyes again, the clearing was a whole lot smaller, and the cold was almost non-existent. He unfurled his wings gratefully and stretched out his whole body like a cat, his joints popping loudly in the quiet night. Once Arcturus was warmed up, he cast around the clearing, trying to sense any deer or other animal in the forest. His stomach’s rumble was louder now in his other form, and Arcturus felt that he would sense any of Clan Lavellan approaching before they found that no one was at the hiding spot. Satisfied, Arcturus flapped his wings once, neck arcing gracefully up to the sky as he prepared to take off-

“Mythal’s blessing!” A tiny voice came off to Arcturus’ left, “Wow! That was so impressive! Are you a magic elf, like my hahren?”

Arcturus’ head shot to the side, and as he looked closer, he saw a small elf standing at the edge of the clearing. She was about three and a half feet tall, with gorgeous red curls, dark skin, short pointed ears, and brown eyes so wide Arcturus could practically see the stars reflected in them from a distance. In her hand the child held a clutch of something brown and furry. Judging by her dress, the child was a member of Clan Lavellan. _Fasta vass!_

Arcturus backed up slowly as the child entered the clearing, his wings tucking into his sides protectively.

“Well?” The girl asked, pointing a small finger in his direction, “Are you a magic elf?”

  
_Well, it is the simplest explaination,_ Arcturus reasoned, so he gave a small nod. The elf child clapped her hands together and dashed towards him, holding her catch close to her chest. Coming to a stop in front of Arcturus, she held her brace of prey up to his paw.

“Here! I heard your stomach rumbling!” She said cheerfully. “Hahren always told me to never do magic on an empty stomach! You can’t regain mana when you’re starving!”

  
She tossed up the clutch of rabbits, and Arcturus snapped them out of the air gratefully. He was impressed that such a young child managed to catch so many rabbits at once. There were five in total, and although they weren’t much, the food was enough to settle his growling stomach. He would still have to hunt later, but now he could focus on the fact that _someone from Clan Lavellan now knew his secret._

Arcturus settled down on his haunches, and stared down at the tiny elf beaming up at him.

“How was it? It wasn’t much, but your stomach’s stopped growling!” She exclaimed up at him. “My name is Elgara! What’s your name?”

Arcturus stared at her for a few moments, and then he decided it was best to just turn back. He would be fuller in his elf form, anyway. He nudged Elgara back a few feet with his snout, and then braced himself against the grass. Arcturus arched his back again, and felt the scales recede slowly and painfully. Once he was back in his smaller form ( _fasta vass_ it was cold), Arcturus flashed a weak smile at Elgara.

“My name is Arcturus, and I was at Clan Lavellan’s campsite a few hours ago,” He said. “Your mother’s looking for you. Why were you out in the woods this long?”

Elgara frowned at him, and Arcturus thought he saw the first signs of tears in her eyes. “Taren bet me that I couldn’t catch anything in the woods, so I went to prove him wrong, bu I got lost,” she explained, pointing to a small bow slung over her shoulder. “I know the camp is around here somewhere, but I couldn’t find where exactly it was and when nightfall came it was cold so I kept moving. And now I’m here! Hahren, do you know where the camp is?”

Arcturus nodded. “I think so, _amicus_. Give me a moment; I need to get my clothes,” he said, and moved over to the tree line where his clothes lay. 

He shugged them on gratefully, and then offered his hand to Elgara, who took it. The transformation got him turned around, but Arcturus was certain he was heading in the right direction. It was a straight shot to the tree, and from there they could make their way back to Clan Lavellan. 

Simple, right? He smiled reassuringly at Elgara, and together the two elves walked out of the clearing.

* * *

“I’m sorry, Elgara, but it appears I’m just as lost as you,” Arcturus admitted guiltily, as they arrived back at the clearing for the tenth time in an hour. He hadn’t been able to find any familiar landmarks that led back to the exact big tree Assan had hid him in. There had been several other big trees, but none of them were the correct big tree.

“It’s alright, hahren,” Elgara said quietly, her eyes trained on the ground, “It’s a very large forest. Once the sun comes up, the clan hunters will find us, or the Keeper will. She’s a magic elf like you.”

Arcturus looked at the downtrodden girl. Although she tried to hide it, Elgara shivered in the chilly night air. It was getting colder, and neither were dressed to endure the cold. If he didn’t do something, she would freeze before the sun came up. _Perhaps… Yes, that could work._

As they passed through the tree line and out into the clearing, Arcturus knelt down in front of Elgara.

“We should wait for morning, like you said, but we also need to stay warm during the night. If I transform, do you think you could climb underneath my wing and stay there all night? It’s very warm under there, and you can brag to your friends that you got to climb a dragon. What do you say?” Arcturus asked.

Elgara beamed tiredly up at him, and nodded her head vigorously. Arcturus stripped off his tunic, and then looked at Elgara. He put it into her hands, and then began to shucked off his pants and smalls.

“Hahren!” Elgara shrieked, covering her eyes with her hands, and Arcturus realized that he had just started stripping down in front of a young child, and a female one at that!

“S-sorry! I usually don’t do this in front of others!” Arcturus wailed as he stumbled away, tripping over the pants bunched around his knees. He wriggled out of them as Elgara giggled madly and pointedly faced the other way, and then cast the pants to the side of the clearing. Arcturus’ face burned as he scrambled to the middle of the clearing, and started the transformation just to avoid the embarassment of facing Elgara as an elf again.

“D-don’t look, okay? It’s not p-pretty… I don’t want you to see,” Arcturus called to her as his skin started to fall off, and his body’s muscles tightened like a coil. “Y-you’ll know when I’m done, okay?"

Elgara was still giggling with her hands over her eyes and her back turned, but she nodded, and Arcturus gave himself over to the transformation once more. Elgara flinched when his backbone snapped and expanded, but otherwise the girl remained still and silent as Arcturus grew and grew and grew until the clearing was small once again. Arcturus let himself sprawl out on the ground, and then growled at Elgara.

The small elf girl dashed forward as Arcturus extended a wing outward, creating a small pocket of warmth between his wing socket and his side. Elgara draped the tunic over herself like a blanket as she clambered over her outstretched paws and up his side, and then she ducked underneath the wing. Arcturus shifted so that Elgara was lying on his soft wing membrane instead of his hard scales (which he knew would rub skin right off from Master Tarsian’s experiments with bareback dragon riding), and let out a low rumble of approval.

“Thank you, hahren!” Elgara called softly to him, and then let out a loud yawn. Arcturus purred softly in response, and then laid his head on his paws. Elgara would keep warm until the sun rise, he was safe from predators, and he would wake early to try and get them on the trail back to Clan Lavellan. It wasn’t perfect, but the plan was Arcturus’ only one. He purred once more, and then shut his eyes.

* * *

Arcturus could feel something light moving on his head. Someone was giggling softly above him, and Arcturus instinctively knew who it was. Why was Elgara stepping on his face? It was dangerous to go stepping on a dragon, but then again she had seen at least part of his first horrific transformation in the clearing and then ran up to him like it was Feastday.

Arcturus grumbled softly, and opened his eyes a slit. Elgara was standing square between his eyes, gripping on of his horns for support. She was… waving? There was a sound from across the clearing, and movement at the edge of the trees drew Arcturus’ eyes.

Elgara’s mother was standing across the clearing, her eyes as wide as twin moons and her face drained of blood. She was clutching one of the smaller trees for support, and Arcturus thought she would faint any moment. Beside her, Assan stood with an arrow nocked to his bow. Even from across the clearing, Arcturus could see his hands trembling. To his right stood Keeper Istimaethoriel, her face grim.

“Mamae!” Elgara shouted cheerfully, completely oblivious to the grim atmosphere, “Look, I found a friend! I got to climb a dragon!”

Arcturus closed his eyes again, and tried not to scream. _Fasta vass. Fasta vass._ Could nothing go right? He opened his eyes again, and Assan clapped a hand over Elgara’s mother’s mouth to muffle her screams. Arcturus lifted his head into the air, careful not to dislodge Elgara, and yawned. When he looked back down, Assan was pointing a bow straight at him.

 _I really should have known better,_ Arcturus thought, right at the same moment Elgara bounced up and down on his snout excitedly.

  
“Keeper, can we keep him? He was an elf before! His name is Arcturus!” She called out, and all of the elves blanched. Arcturus growled in agony.

_I really, really should have known better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arcturus can't catch a break, ever. At least Elgara made a friend, right?


	8. To the Conclave!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize if this chapter feels slightly off or disjointed; I could only write segments at a time between the struggles of Real Life of working both a job and going to college. I hope you enjoy this though, we're only a chapter away from the Conclave and the series of unfortunate events that follow. Thank you for sticking with me through these times of hardship.
> 
> Also, in terms of the Lavellan aravels, I'm going between a hybrid of the Origins aravels and the concept art from Inquisition. They have the large red sails, but they also have the bulk and the 'fold-out' appearance from Origins. The aravels in DA2 looked like they were barely able to hold the Dalish's luggage, let alone have anyone sleep in them.

The Keeper remained silent as Arcturus followed the group of Dalish back to their camp, now back to his smaller form and re-dressed in the loaned clothing for warmth. Elgara, blissfully oblivious to the tension in the air, hummed happily to herself, her hands linked securely with the Keeper’s and her mother’s, who had already given her a light scolding for running off. Assan was cursing softly to himself in a string of Elvish swears with an arrow nocked to his bow. The hunter marched right behind Arcturus in such a way that the tip of the arrow brushed against the small of Arcturus’ back and the edges of his clothes.

Arcturus kept his eyes on the ground, resisting the urge to pull at the rough rope that bound his wrists together. He could easily break free- he had to keep reminding himself of that. Master Tarsian kept him in chains, but rope could easily be snapped. Plus, Arcturus reasoned, the Dalish had taken him in and given him clothes, food, and a hiding place from the angry humans. The least he could do after imposing on them was to hear what Keeper Istimaethoriel had to say.

The camp was quiet when the five elves returned. There were Dalish still present in front of small campfires, but the majority seemed to be resting beside their fires and in the large wagons. The large red sails were drawn up to form a large tent, and as Arcturus passed one of the large landships he could see dozens of elves asleep inside, all of them curled up close and sharing blankets and furs for warmth.

The remaining elves all looked up as the Keeper led the way into the camp, their eyes glowing from the reflected firelight. The majority appeared to be hunters like Assan, Arcturus noted. They wore similar clothes and most of them had the same tattoo on their face that looked like a stylized arrow. One of them rushed forward as Elgara came into view and scooped the elfkit up before clutching her to his chest.

“ _Da’len,_ where did you run off to? We were worried that something had happened to you!” He cried, and Elgara wiggled happily in his grasp. The mother joined her partner, and the man wrapped his arm around her waist.

“Papae!” Elgara exclaimed, throwing her tiny arms around the hunter’s neck. “Taren bet me that I couldn’t catch anything in the forest, but I proved him wrong! I can be a hunter for the clan now!”

“The only thing you’re going be, _lethallin,_ is in bed!” The hunter scolded, echoed by Elgara’s mother. “And we will deal with the issue of Taren in the morning.”

The male elf exchanged a look with the Keeper, who nodded, and then the three of them turned and headed towards the closest aravel. Elgara waved happily to Arcturus from over the shoulder of her father, and then she vanished from sight as the flap to the aravel swung shut.

Assan nudged Arcturus forward with his bow, and the group moved forward past the silent group of hunters towards a small tent pitched on the edge of camp At Assan’s urging. Arcturus knelt forward under the tent flap, and crawled inside. There were a few threadbare rugs layered on top of the packed dirt, and a few candles flickered in saucers set near a worn wooden stool. Under Assan’s direction, Arcturus took a seat on the stool, and faced the other elves.

“Now that we have privacy,” The Keeper said as she moved forward and leaned on her staff, which lit up in a brilliant blue under her touch. “I would prefer if you answered our questions honestly. We took you in when you were injured, and sheltered you from the humans that hunt you. I have heard of mages that could change their shape, but never on such a scale. Where did you learn such magic?”

“I’m not a mage!” Arcturus gasped, his gaze transfixed to the glow of the staff. He shifted to the far edge of the stool, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the implement. The blue light only grew brighter, and Assan suddenly appeared at Arcturus’ side, gripping his shoulders tightly. Arcturus, panicking, thrashed and shut his eyes as he felt something cold and foreign brush over his skin. His heart beat faster as freezing cold hands descended on his temples.

“Hold him steady, Assan!” The Keeper instructed, and Arcturus felt the other elf’s hands tighten over his shoulders and neck, limited his thrashing. Arcturus tried to cower away from her touch, but Assan forced his face forward until the Keeper’s hand made contact with his forehead. Arcturus could almost feel the magic spreading over his face, numbing his skin wherever it touched, and he tried to force his face away. His heart was pounding against his ribcage. Arcturus could feel his skin shivering, and bile rising in his throat. He felt his eyes roll upwards of their own volition as a memory flashed before his eyes:

_“I’m sorry, Arcturus, but you must learn,” Master Tarsian said sadly, his expression neutral as his hands lit up with blazing red magic that suffused the room with an angry glow. Arcturus tugged against his chains, but to no avail; he was stuck fast.  He snapped his jaws at the human angrily, clicking his sharp teeth together, and the Master sighed, disappointment radiating off of him._

_“I thought Taardathras had taught you better than this. Very well. After your punishment, I shall bind you to your current form,” Tarsian said as he reached down and roughly grasped Arcturus’ chin. The red light spread from the human’s hand and up Arcturus’ face. He struggled, but Tarsian snapped his fingers and Arcturus felt his joints lock up. Everywhere the red light touched, the skin reddened and it burned, the sensation flooding deep into his joints._

_Tarsian released Arcturus’ jaw, watching impassionately as Arcturus writhed and screamed on the floor of the tent. The tent flap parted, and Arcturus could just barely see Taardathras enter the tent. He tried to transform, but the pain from the magic was too strong; he was trapped in his current skin. He collapsed, panting, too tired to struggle further. The pain flared up whenever he moved; even breathing hurt. Taardathras knelt next to him and looked down at him with her calm, neutral face, her hair cascading down around her horns._

_“Imekari, why do you fight this? You are more than a beast now, thanks to Master Tarsian. Why do you spurn his gifts?”_

_Arcturus cowered away from her, hiding his face behind his tangled blonde locks. He whined, and Taardathras sighed. She stood up, and turned to face Master Tarsian._

_“I apologise, my lord. I had been certain that such habits had been eliminated,” she said, but Master Tarsian waved her aside. Arcturus’ lips were bleeding now; he hadn’t realized, but he had bitten through them. He barely registered the small flash of pain as a hand yanked him up by his hair._

_“You will remain here until you have learned your lesson,” Tarsian breathed into his ear, and then let go of his hair. Arcturus’ head smacked against the ground, and his vision was limited to the swathe of carpets stretching out beside him and Taardathras’ boots. Drool trickled out of the corner of one mouth, but Arcturus did not have the strength to wipe it away. He looked up at Taardathras, pleading silently, until she turned and strode silently away._

There was a root digging into his side. The pervasive sensation of magic had faded away, though Arcturus’ skin still faintly tingled. Something cushioned his cheek and head; Arcturus didn’t dare move and check, not after what the Keeper had done to him. He could understand her mistrust from a logical perspective, but… Arcturus shivered slightly, resisting the urge to curl up into a ball. He had no idea where he was now.

He was laid out on his side, and he could feel a tarp under his fingers that provided a thin barrier between himself and the dirt below. Arcturus couldn’t sense anyone lurking near him, but he remained still, just in case. He cracked open an eye, gazing at a sliver of the thin tarp, the edge of the crimson tent, and one of the stool’s legs in the background. He shifted his arms; to his surprise, they were no longer bound behind him.

Someone parted the tent flap behind Arcturus, and he closed his eyes, keeping his breathing steady to hide the sudden drumming of his heart. A calloused hand ( _not the Keeper’s her hands were smaller and softer please don’t be a mage)_ brushed across Arcturus’ tangled hair, smoothing over the greasy locks. After tucking his hair behind one ear, the stranger unfurled a piece of cloth and draped it over Arcturus’ shoulders and chest.

“Assan, let me know when he awakens,” The unknown male said, his voice addressed to a corner of the tent Arcturus couldn’t see.

“He’s already awake,” Assan grunted, and Arcturus couldn’t help but freeze up. “Has been for a few minutes now.”

With the ruse discovered, Arcturus sat up and looked up at the newcomer. The new elf looked like he was only a few years into his adulthood, with softer cheeks, smaller wrinkles around his eyes, and long black hair drawn up into a loose ponytail. Arcturus’ eyes went up to the black tattoo that perched on the elf’s brow, standing out starkly against his darker skin.

Although he was dressed like the other Dalish warriors, it was clear that this elf was different. Perhaps it was the strange sword hilt looped through his belt that had no blade attached to it.

“Dareth shiral, stranger,” The elf said, crouching down to Arcturus’ eye level. “I am Mahanon, the Keeper’s Second, and I have been assigned to be your, well, companion while you travel with the Clan.”

Mahanon flashed Arcturus an honest smile, and Arcturus was certain the younger elf had no idea who (or what) Arcturus was, nor what the Keeper had done to him earlier. The last bit of the sentence filtered in, and Arcturus looked nervously around the tent.

“Traveling?” He asked tentatively, briefly making eye contact with Assan before the older elf’s stare forced him to look elsewhere. “What do you mean by traveling? Where are we going?”

Mahanon looked back at Assan, as if to say ‘you didn’t tell him?’ to which Assan merely grunted and looked away. The younger elf rolled his eyes, his hand unconsciously rubbing over the pommel of the strange bladeless hilt.

“We’re heading to the city of Wycome, under the invitation of the Duke. Apparently the shems in charge in Fereldan are holding some sort of meeting to end the conflict between the mages and templars, and our Keeper wants to know about the proceedings from a safe distance in case the situation goes sour,” Mahanon explained patiently, and Arcturus barely understood a word the other elf was saying. _Wycome? Shem? Templars?_

His education had largely about Tevinter; he could only recall that there were some sort of ceremonial guards known as Templars in the Circles, but since he had no magic Taardathras hadn’t bothered to fill the gaps in his knowledge about magical education. Non-magical slaves had no need of such things.

Some of his confusion must have shown on his face, because Mahanon patted him on the shoulder.

“Tevinter, right?” He said softly, startling Arcturus out of his daze. Instinctively, Arcturus clutched the back of his neck, his hand rubbing against the raised skin of his brand, and he gazed up sharply at the younger elf.

“How did-” Arcturus asked, feeling suddenly lost. He hadn’t spoken a word of Tevene to the Dalish, and what with the varying skin tones in the clan Arcturus resembled a good quarter of the elves here.

“The accent, da’len,” Assan grunted from his spot in the corner. “Your Trade is very good, but a Tevinter accent is very distinct here in the South. There were other signs, as well.”

Deliberately, the older elf gestured to the back of his neck, and Arcturus took his hand from his brand, letting his longer hair cover it back up. He wasn’t sure how to feel about their discovery, nor how easy it had been.

It was better if Arcturus steered the conversation back on topic, namely, why the Keeper was keeping him in a tent and assigning both a guard and a guide. Arcturus’ injury was the only reason the Clan had taken him in, and he had stuck with them only through the panic of the human search. Now that the danger was gone, and his ribs were mostly healed, Arcturus had every intention of getting out of the Keeper’s hair and continuing his ceaseless path south, away from the Orlesian knights and any sign of his former master.

“Yes,” Arcturus said softly, “but that doesn’t answer my previous questions, ah, Mahanon. It was my intention to leave as soon as the Keeper was satisfied with her questions, since I found one of your missing children. Why would I be traveling with your Clan to Wycome, or wherever this is? I do not wish to impose further on your hospitality.”

Mahanon remained silent, his lips pursed and his brows furrowed. He looked rather confused, but after a moment, he opened his mouth to speak, only to be beaten to the moment by Assan, who got up off of his stool.

“You’ll have to ask the Keeper yourself. Mahanon, watch the shem for now. The Keeper doesn’t want him leaving the tent until we finish packing the aravels,” Assan said, addressing Mahanon only as he slung his bow over his shoulder. “I will speak to the Keeper about the situation. If he struggles, do not hesitate to subdue him.”

  
With that terrible statement, the older elf ducked out of the tent, leaving the two remaining elves sitting in silence. Mahanon looked at Arcturus for a few moments, and Arcturus redirected his gaze to the blanket over his lap. Anger began to boil in the pit of his stomach, but he felt distant from it all. His fists bunched in the fabric, and after a few moments his eyes started to water. Arcturus only realized he was trembling when Mahanon lightly placed a hand on his shoulder.

He brushed off the elf’s hand, and instead scooted backwards until his back was situated against one of the support poles. Arcturus wrapped the blanket around his shoulders, and buried his face against his knees. Why else would the Clan assign a mage to him except to keep him from transforming? Did the Keeper think he was possessed?

“What’s your name?” The mage tentatively asked, dragging the stool Assan had vacated to the center of the tent and perching on it, his hands clasped together in his lap. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask before, but I don’t know your name. The Keeper never told me.” 

Arcturus stared up at Mahanon’s earnest face, and then back down at his dirt-covered feet. Assan didn’t seem to be in any hurry returning, and Arcturus wasn’t sure how long he could endure the young mage’s pouting face.

 

“Arcturus,” Arcturus murmured, and Mahanon leaned forward eagerly, “My name is Arcturus.”

 

Mahanon beamed at him, and if he had a tail Arcturus was sure it would be wagging behind him. The silence settled comfortably around them, and Arcturus let some of the tension bleed out of his muscles.

 

After a good amount of time (far longer than it should’ve taken) sitting in silence, Arcturus glanced at the tent flap. Mahanon was fidgeting with the crystal at the top of his staff, and when Arcturus looked up at him, the younger elf avoided his gaze.

“He’s not coming back with the Keeper, is he?” Arcturus asked.

“I’m afraid that seems to be the case,” Mahanon said, finally meeting Arcturus’ eyes. “I think the Keeper intends to make us wait. I- I’m not allowed to leave you alone, sorry about that, but I could get you a bedroll?”

Arcturus nodded, and Mahanon moved over to the flap of the tent. He poked his head out and shouted something in elvish to someone in the camp beyond. After a few minutes, Mahanon glanced over at him, biting the corner of his lip.

“Wait there, alright?” He said, his hands forming a soothing gesture as he strode out of the tent. Arcturus watched as the tent flap fell back into place behind the mage, and for a moment, he was tempted to try and escape. Arcturus glanced at the other side of the tent, but Mahanon quickly ducked back inside, a thin bedroll clutched under his arm. He laid it out on the ground, and Arcturus rose to his feet.

“Sorry, that’s all we have,” Mahanon said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. Arcturus shrugged at the other elf before curling up inside the sleeping roll, pulling the threadbare furs over his head and shutting out the world. _I should have just waited by the tree,_ he thought to himself. _Kaffas, I could have avoided all of this._ He would have to escape at some point; Arcturus was not ready to give up the sweet taste of freedom. Arcturus shut his eyes, and let his mind drift off into peaceful oblivion.

* * *

 

Arcturus woke to the creaking of wheels. The ground beneath him vibrated, and everything stank of dung and sweat. The bed roll was bunched up under him, and as Arcturus sat up, he had to wipe the drool from the corner of his mouth. His hair draped over his shoulders, and Arcturus grimaced as he ran his fingers through the tangled, greasy locks. Once the sleep haze faded him his eyes, Arcturus looked around at his surroundings. He had been placed in one of the landships, and he had been sharing space with various crates and tightly bundled packs.

Light streamed into the aravel through the cracks around a tarp stretched tight over the partially open ceiling and the lip of the wagon. He crawled out of the bed roll, and stood up jerkily, keeping one hand on the wall to maintain his balance as the landship passed over a bit of rocky road. Arcturus laid one hand on the fabric and tried to push it aside. He felt disoriented; he remembered falling asleep last night, but nothing else. It was clearly day now, and he seemed to be a prisoner.

The tarp held fast when Arcturus tried to push it, and when he dug his nails into the fabric he found that it appeared to be some kind of thick hide, lashed to the outside of the aravel with thick ropes and chains. Growling, Arcturus tugged at the tarp, but it refused to budge. It was too small in here to transform. His arms and spine would snap like sticks against the sides of the massive landship. The Keeper had him trapped here; Arcturus had no doubt that it was her doing that he was kept in such a confined area.

He stalked back to his bedroll and threw himself down upon it. Arcturus took a few deep breaths, tucking his arms under his knees so that he wouldn’t punch one of the crates. He could feel his teeth loosening in their gums, and the tips of his fangs threatening to emerge. _Let them,_ Arcturus thought darkly. Let the Keeper know that she was playing with fire by keeping something as dangerous as him in here like some kind of pet. She had had the chance to let him go peacefully last night.

He spat his blunt teeth into the palm of his hand, and wiped the blood off of his real teeth with one sleeve. The skin on his cheeks and chin were splitting, rubbed away by the budding scales, and Arcturus grinned to himself as the world suddenly came into a sharper focus. He scratched at his face with his still blunt nails, peeling off the flaking skin. Arcturus settled back on his bed roll, and he waited.

Hours passed, and the sun rose overhead. Arcturus remained on his bedroll, stewing in his anger. He heard indistinct voices speaking outside, but no one had opened the flap to Arcturus’ landship, and he had been provided with neither food nor water. Arcturus looked up at the sun coming in from the cracks overhead. The caravan had left the cover of the trees about an hour ago, and now there was no shade to keep the aravel from heating up. Sweat dripped down his forehead and the back of his neck. He wiped it away with the back of his hand, and slumped back against one of the large crates.

Suddenly, the aravel began to slow, and Arcturus rose from his seat and took up a position near the covered exit. Arcturus crouched down and placed a hand against one of the walls for support. He focused on the sudden footsteps approaching his prison, and Arcturus bared his teeth in anticipation. Whoever it was paused right outside of the landship, and then a hand rapped sharply against the hide.

  
“Arcturus? It’s me, Mahanon. Are you awake?” Mahanon called out softly, moving to the side of the wagon. “I have your meal with me.”

Arcturus hissed softly, and Mahanon froze up for a moment. Arcturus crawled closer to the elf as Mahanon unbound part of the hide, and he could hear the young mage whispering fervently: “Please don’t kill me… Please don’t kill me…”

The flap parted, and Arcturus shielded his eyes from the blinding glare of the sun. He scuttled backwards, and Mahanon entered the aravel, his staff in hand and a bowl in the other. Two waterskins hung at his waist along with a pair of hand manacles. Behind the mage, Arcturus could see an open, grassy field with rock outcroppings in the distance with no forest to be seen.

Then, the flap of the aravel closed again, and Mahanon flattened himself against the far wall. The mage set the bowl of what smelled like stew on the ground, and held onto one of the water skins defensively, his eyes transfixed on Arcturus’ mouth. Mahanon’s body trembled, and he seemed to be working up the courage to speak. Arcturus reached over and scooped the bowl up before he retreated back to the bedroll, all the while maintaining unblinking eye contact with the other elf. Mahanon gulped visibly, and then drew himself up.

“You’ll need to eat quickly,” he whispered, tossing over one of the waterskins from his belt. “The Keeper is busy negotiating with the Orlesian shems, and all of our hunters are at the front of the caravan. I’m not supposed to be in here.”

Arcturus drank the stew from the bowl in a couple of gulps, his sharp teeth making quick work of the stringy (and rather overall unsatisfying) meat floating in the bitter broth. He smacked his lips after he had finished, chasing the taste, and then he shoved the bowl back to Mahanon. The water inside the skin was warm, but Arcturus still downed half of it in less than a minute. After he was done, he passed the skin back, and looked up at the mage warily.

“Why are you helping me?” He rasped, baring his needle-sharp teeth as he slumped back against the crates. “Surely the Keeper has explained what I am.”

Mahanon nodded warily.

“She has told me you are no demon, although your appearance suggests otherwise,” he said, “but _what_ you are was information I am not privy too.”

Mahanon sounded bitter, and Arcturus couldn’t blame him. From what he gathered, the mage was some sort of apprentice to the Keeper, in the way that Remus had been underneath Master Tarsian’s tutelage. There was no reason the Keeper should keep it a secret; Assan and Elgara had already seen his true form.

“But why are you helping me?” Arcturus repeated, growling. “I am being kept in here like a mutt in a kennel, when all I wanted was to leave in peace before. Now, I could reduce this Clan to a smear of ash upon the ground, and yet you feed me. _Why?”_

“The Keeper wants to keep you with us until Wycome,” Mahanon said, fiddling with the front of his robes nervously and glancing back at the partially open flap. “She will call a meeting of the clan, and they will vote on what to do with you. She believes that it is too dangerous to release you; the Clan has no defense against you, and now it is too late to end hostilities. At Wycome, she might at least have the shemlen guards there as backup should you try anything, since the Duke of Wycome is on friendly terms with her.”

Mahanon looked down at his feet for a few moments, his face pinched. He took a few visible deep breaths, and then continued, “I will be leaving for the shemlen Conclave; the Keeper cannot spare anyone else. It is a long journey to the Frostback Mountains, and I will face many perils during my travels. Whatever you are is powerful, and I believe it was wrong of the Keeper to imprison you here.”

Mahanon placed his staff on the floor, and held out both of his hands to Arcturus.

“I will make a deal. I free you,” he said seriously, his tone holding no trace of the nervousness from earlier. “And you’ll promise me that you will leave my Clan in peace, and escort me to the Conclave. The journey to Wycome will take longer than the trip to the Conclave; our aravels must go around the Waking Sea. It will be many months before you properly see sunlight again, if the Clan does not vote to kill you. If you escort me, you will be free in half a year. Once I am at the Conclave, our bargain is kept and you are free to go. Do we have a deal?”

Arcturus scowled at the mage. It was not much of a choice now, was it? He glanced longingly at the warm sunlight outside, and the open fields of grass. He could pick up on shouts in the distance; angry voices chattering harshly in elven.

“Do we have a deal?” Mahanon asked again, staring unfalteringly into Arcturus’ eyes. “We do not have much time; the Keeper will return soon.”

There was no choice. Arcturus looked around at what would be his prison for several months, and thrust his arms forward to clasp hands with Mahanon.

“We have a deal,” Arcturus growled, and he let his fangs recede back into his gums. The skin on his cheeks started to seal over, and the unnatural focus to his eyes faded. Mahanon gaped openly, but then recovered himself as the angry voices grew louder.

“Ma serannas,” Mahanon said, looking relieved. “We will wait until nightfall. I have informed the Keeper that I will leave before midnight, to avoid any shemlen patrols. I will retrieve you then. Search these crates and packs; you’ll need another pair of clothes at the very least, and a week’s worth of food-”

“The food does not matter,” Arcturus interrupted. “If you free me, I can hunt for us both, and cut our travel time down by weeks.”

Mahanon looked puzzled, but he accepted Arcturus’ words with a nod.

“Regardless,” he continued, and glanced over his shoulder once again. “Pack what you need, and wait for me at nightfall. If the Keeper comes in, say nothing.”

He stood, and gathered up the bowl and waterskin. Arcturus maintained eye contact with the mage until he ducked out of the aravel, closing the flap behind him. Within moments, the hide covering the aravel was securely back in place, and Arcturus was back where he started. He glared up at the sun shining directly overhead.

“ _Kaffas!”_ He hissed, and seized the nearest pack. He tipped it over on its side, and spilled out all of its contents onto the floor of the aravel. 

Sweeping aside the useless herbs and baubles, Arcturus propped open the pack and started rummaging through the others. Soon he had amassed a small amount of useful tools and supplies: rope, a small knife, a spare shirt, pants, and finally, a large waterskin that faintly stank of wine.

  
He returned the rest of the items into their respective packs and then rearranged them to the best of his ability. Hopefully no one would notice his meddling until he was already gone. Arcturus shoved the pack behind one of the crates near his bedroll, and curled up on the threadbare furs. The sun was still shining overhead, and Arcturus cursed it silently as he closed his eyes. Now that there was a plan, his blood was riled up. As his mind drifted, he wondered why Mahanon was so determined to attend that human Conclave or whatever it was. Master Tarsian hadn’t updated him on modern politics outside of Tevinter.

* * *

 

The aravels stopped just as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, and the crimson light disappeared from the cracks in the hide overhead. Arcturus sat up as the caravan sprang to life, and watched through the small gap between the hide and the aravel wall as the Dalish set up their fires in the distance, and sentries patrolled through the parked aravels. Arcturus ducked back from the gap as one of the Dalish passed too close. He scurried back to his bedroll and quickly rolled it up before stuffing it into his pack and then returning to his previous position.

  
Arcturus sat cross-legged with the pack over his shoulder, anxiously watching the entrance to the aravel as the moon rose higher and higher into the sky. In the distance, the Dalish fires dwindled down as the main body of the Clan retired for the night. Arcturus began to pace as stillness descended over the plains, broken only by crickets chirping in the distance and the occasional crunch as one the sentires crushed grass underfoot.

Arcturus’ only blessing was that the Keeper did not appear. Arcturus would have attacked the older woman, no matter what her intentions. His kind was not one to be caged.  As it was, when Mahanon finally appeared and cut the ropes holding the hide in place, it took everything Arcturus had not to transform there and then. Instead, he adjusted his pack and slipped out, reveling in the cool, crisp night air. He could see the two moons overhead, and his view of the stars was unimpeded. The grass felt smooth and dry underfoot. Mahanon’s eyes glowed yellow in the dark, reflecting back the dying light of the campfire.

  
The mage nodded, and Arcturus fell into step behind him. Mahanon crouched low to the ground and held his staff tightly in his hand, and then the two of them crept out into the tall grass, which closed around them with nary a ripple. Thanks to Mahanon, neither of them spotted any of the sentries, and no alarm seemed to sound as they traveled further away. They traveled quickly and quietly through the grass, and eventually Arcturus lost sight of the Dalish campfires.

Mahanon finally called a halt after the moon slowly began to descend from its zenith towards the horizon. He crouched down into the grass, and laid out a piece of paper onto a flat rock before he conjured a small flame into his palm.

“We’ll need to cover a bit of distance in order to avoid any shemlen patrols,” Mahanon whispered as Arcturus crouched down beside him. “We’re looking for a specific landmark. It’s a giant wolf statue, and it should be visible even on a night such as this. We need to get there before dawn, which is in a few hours. Once we’re there, we can rest, and wait out the next patrol. Are you up for the journey?”

Arcturus grinned, and he felt the skin across his cheek tear to reveal purple scales underneath.

“Stand back, mage,” he told Mahanon as he started to shuck off his pack and tunic, ignoring the mage’s incredulous look. “I can can get us there in less than an hour. I’m looking for a giant wolf statue continuing in our current direction, correct?”

Mahanon nodded, looking confused, but he obeyed Arcturus’ instructions. Arcturus grinned as the transformation took place. When he started to change, Mahanon’s eyes widened. When Arcturus finished changing, the elf’s eyes looked like they were going to bulge out of his sockets. Arcturus reared his neck back, and smugly swiped his tail across the grass as the elf approached him.

“Fehendis lasa!” Mahanon exclaimed, half-heartedly picking up Arcturus’ discarded clothes. “You weren’t kidding, were you!”

He reached out, and Arcturus grandly extended out a claw for the elf’s inspection. The mage touched the purple scales reverently, and Arcturus fanned his wings smugly. It was always nice to be appreciated. Once Mahanon was done with his inspection, Arcturus awkwardly sat down on the grass, extending both his front paws and making a loose bowl with his claws. Mahanon looked up at him, bit his lip, and walked forward to settle himself into Arcturus’ claws.

“Please don’t drop me!” He called up at Arcturus, turning a distinct shade paler, and clutched his staff to his chest. “Once we get to the wolf statue, we’ll figure out what to do from there, alright?”

Arcturus nodded and rose up onto his hind legs, his wings outstretched. While It was an awkward position to hold with his forepaws occupied with holding Mahanon, but he would managed. He beat his wings once, and lifted his snout towards the wind. The night was calling out to him now that there were no aravel walls or elven tents holding him back. Arcturus dug his hind legs into the grass, and launched himself upward.

Mahanon screamed, but he remained safe and secure in Arcturus’ paws and so Arcturus ignored him. He beat his wings harder, and ascended into the clear night sky. With the Dales laid out before him like a patchwork rug, Arcturus roared triumphantly. Nothing beat the feel of the wind beneath his wings, and the sight of the two large moons looming overhead. Arcturus stared at their mesmerizing beauty for another few minutes before reluctantly turning his gaze downward.

  
Even at this height, he should be able to see the wolf statue Mahanon described. Arcturus would not abandon Mahanon now, even with the beauty of the two moons and the whisper of the wind around him. No, he would keep his promise to the elven mage, and escort him to the human ‘Conclave’, but for now he would enjoy the brief taste of freedom while it lasted. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention poor Mahanon was afraid of heights? :3
> 
> Next up, the Conclave, and the consequences that lead into the main game!


	9. Arcturus and Mahanon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last, we are here! Thank you everyone for having patience, and for leaving me so many encouraging comments.
> 
> In which Arcturus encounters the rest of Thedas for the first time, as well as the wonders of Qunari.

Arcturus established a routine with Mahanon quickly. The elf couldn’t ride on his back; Arcturus’ scales would rub through Mahanon’s robes and strip the skin from his legs. Neither could Arcturus carry the elf too high; the harsh, heavy winds drowned out the mage’s voice and robbed him of his breath. 

During the day, Mahanon would lead on foot, following one of the Keeper’s maps through a series of distinct landmarks. They would rest periodically, and Arcturus ensured that their packs were always full of fresh meat. There were places torn apart by the civil war and left deserted, where the farm animals who managed to get away from both armies wandered freely.

“At this rate, we’ll be out of the Exalted Plains in a few days time,” Mahanon said on the seventh day. He sat cross-legged next to the fire, carefully turning the goat roasting upon a spit. Arcturus had found the beast grazing in the burned-out shell of a village destroyed long ago, and when he had explained where he found the beast Mahanon had become morose. 

At Mahanon’s words, Arcturus lifted his muzzle off of the soft dirt and growled softly. Beyond the circle of their camp, the wind whipped the blades of grass into a harsh frenzy. The fire flickered constantly, but thanks to Arcturus’ bulk, it hadn’t gone out.

As the fire crackled, Mahanon unrolled a piece of paper from his pack, and laid it out on the ground. He traced the spider-thin lines with one finger, silently mouthing something to himself. Arcturus cast a large purple eye over the map, but it was just a mess of squiggly lines and black blotches to him. He instead turned his gaze back to the goat, which was smelling quite delicious. 

“I’ve never been this far east in the Dales before,” Mahanon said suddenly, turning his attention away from the map. “It’s strange, being so far from my clan.”

He looked down at the staff in his lap, and his ears seemed to droop. Arcturus rumbled unhappily, and then delicately placed one of his claws across Mahanon’s shoulders as a comforting gesture. Mahanon sucked in a breath at the contact, and then leaned back onto Arcturus’ paw.

His shoulders trembled, and then Mahanon’s hands balled into fists and he covered his face, muffling his sobs. Arcturus curled his paw around him, and Mahanon curled up into a ball against the scales, his cloak and hair hiding him from sight. Arcturus listened to the elf cry for a few minutes, and then laid his head down on the ground, his horns digging furrows into the grass and dirt. He placed his snout within arm’s reach of Mahanon, and then Arcturus waited. Behind him, the fire crackled and popped, sending showers of sparks out into the open plains beyond.

The moon was sitting fat and low in the sky when Mahanon finally emerged from the shelter of Arcturus’ paw. The skin around the elf’s eyes were rubbed red, and his whole face looked pinched and puffy. Mahanon smoothed his hair, and then eyed the half-burned goat resting on the spit. He took the goat off of the spit and took a seat on one of Arcturus’ horns, which were still buried in the ground. Arcturus snorted at him, and Mahanon grinned as he set to work cutting off the remaining palatable sections of the goat.

“Thank you, Arcturus,” Mahanon said, keeping his eyes firmly on the goat as he worked. “I am not used to being without my Clan. Before my magic came in, we hunted game in pairs. I cannot tell you how many times the younger hunters went out and celebrated around a fire after a large hunt. I swore one of my sisters, Elena, was sitting by my side when I was cooking the goat, but when I turned to talk to her, it was only my imagination.”

He smiled sadly, and then offered Arcturus one of the goat’s legs. Arcturus snapped it up quickly, while Mahanon sliced himself his own piece of meat and ate it slowly. The rest of the goat disappeared piece by piece, until there was only the charred bits. Mahanon took the remainders away from the camp, and buried it to deter scavengers and other predators. Arcturus watched him in silence, and then smothered the campfire with one giant paw.

“I’ll take the watch tonight,” Mahanon said, his eyes gleaming yellow from the light of the moon. “We may have to alter the schedule tomorrow, and risk flying during the day.”

Arcturus nodded in agreement, and then nudged Mahanon’s bedroll towards the elf. While Mahanon set it up, Arcturus let himself sprawl out, his wings folded securely on his back and the various bags tucked under his wings. Mahanon laid out the roll beside Arcturus’ head, and Arcturus let his eyelids droop shut contentedly. 

At the pace they were going, Mahanon would barely be a couple months away from his clan. Perhaps Arcturus would escort him back, afterwards. He wondered what it would be like to have a family, but traveling with Mahanon left him with a warm, pleasant feeling inside his chest. He felt Mahanon lean against his neck, and Arcturus happily drifted off into blissful unconsciousness.

Arcturus and Mahanon were one day from the Frostbacks when they were attacked. For the weeks they traveled, the Exalted Plains and the rest of the Dales had been in turmoil. The plains had been dug up and filled with trenches and various ballistas and other projectiles built on huge earthenworks. 

There were smoking houses, and deep pits near the edges of battlefields filled with the charred remains of the dead. Mahanon wouldn’t speak when they passed by the remains of the war, and Arcturus tried not to look at any of the bodies. Their only boon was that the Orlesian soldiers were rather easy to spot from a distance, with their polished silver armor and elaborate metal masks.

* * *

 

The bandits that attacked them two days from the Fereldan border wore pieces of Orlesian armor, albeit battered, stained, and scratched pieces that were likely pried off of the many corpses that littered the landscape. Mahanon threw up a barrier just moments before three poorly fletched arrows shot out of the forest and splintered against the shimmering blue barrier.

“Arcturus, get back!” Mahanon shouted, tossing his pack aside as his hands lit up with brilliant red flames. Arcturus backed up to the edge of the barrier as fifteen men streamed out from the cover of the trees. Arcturus shed his pack, eyeing the motley collection of weapons each man sported and the desperation on their faces. 

Mahanon’s hands lit up again, and a wall of ice shot up from the ground, blocking off the bandits. He shot Arcturus a glance, and Arcturus dashed out from the safety of the barrier. He sprinted back down the road about a hundred feet, and ripped off his tunic as he ducked into a small clearing separated by a couple of trees. 

There was no one else on this deserted road besides the bandits, and Arcturus kept one eye on the ice wall, visible through the widely spaced trees as he started to claw at the ground. His wings were only half-formed by the time the bandits made their way around the ice wall, and Mahanon’s barrier was starting to fade. 

Mahanon began to back up, all the while twirling his staff and shooting off deadly spikes of ice that punctured through the bandits’ armor like paper. Still, the bandits had the advantage in numbers. Arcturus growled as his whole face stretched forward into the muzzle, and his horns sprouted painfully from the sides of his head. He willed himself to transform faster.

By now, Mahanon was surrounded on all sides, and he had cast another barrier. The bandits who weren’t surrounding Mahanon were moving quickly down the road, no doubt searching for where Arcturus had run off to. When one of the bandits found Arcturus’ tunic and pack discarded on the side of the road, he laughed and hefted the fabric up into the air to show to the others.

“Looks like we’re looking for a naked, addled rabbit!” He called to his compatriots, who joined him in laughter. The bandits spread out into the trees, but by the time the first man got past the trees, Arcturus was ready for him. The man barely had time to scream before Arcturus closed his jaws around the human’s upper half and flung the man into the forest. The bandit’s body crunched against one of the trees, and Arcturus growled triumphantly.

 

He barged out of the clearing and onto the main road, trampling over tree trunks as he did so, and willed that Mahanon’s barrier would still hold. The bandits had hilariously froze as Arcturus made his way out of the clearing, and Arcturus took the time to smash the ones closest to him into paste. The bandits around Mahanon were distracted, and the elf took advantage. Mahanon put his hand up to his temple, and a flash of green light shot out in all directions. The bandits around him reeled back, clutching their foreheads, and Mahanon gracefully ducked between two of them and flung himself out of the way.

Once Mahanon was in the clear, Arcturus charged, his shoulders clipping the tops of the trees on either side of the small road. The bandits were slowly recovering from Mahanon’s spell when Arcturus set upon them, and in a quick few moments Arcturus felt the sparks build in the back of his throat. Lightning crackled around Arcturus’ snout, and when he breathed out the bandits screamed in agony. Part of the lightning fried the tree branches, and when Arcturus leaned back everything was smoking slightly. Once Arcturus was sure Mahanon was unharmed, he turned back around and set off to silence the rest of the bandits.

* * *

“We should get you some kind of weapon,” Mahanon said, once Arcturus had hunted down the remainder of the bandits. The Dalish elf was rummaging through the bandits’ supplies, which had been hidden in the forest just off of the road. They were sitting upwind from the attack site, away from the stench of fried corpses.

“What is this for?” Arcturus asked, glancing down at his own clothes. “I have no need of new clothes.”

“No, but we will need something to blend in with the crowd at the Conclave,” Mahanon said cheerfully. “There will be plenty of mercenaries there, and technically the Dalish aren’t supposed to be there. With these uniforms, we should be able to blend in with the various groups. I had been planning to steal two of these when we got there, but this should be much easier.” He waved a hand at Arcturus. “Come now, try it on while I’ll see if I can find any decent weapons around here.”

Arcturus gazed dubiously at the supposed mercenary uniform, but obeyed nevertheless. He slipped off his tunic, and put on the tunic. It was looser in the waist and chest, as it was obviously intended for a human. The pants were the same, and the boots laid out by Mahanon were uncomfortable and pinched Arcturus’ toes. The shirt was a dark red/brown, and paired with a green overcoat inlaid with a set of pauldrons that weighed heavily on Arcturus’ shoulders. The bracers were brown, and the strings had to be tightened considerably before the leather pieces would stay on his arms. 

The pants were the same green as the coat, and made for someone of considerable girth. Arcturus had to hold a fistful of fabric in his hands in order to keep them up, and by the end of it he felt very silly. There was still some kind of scarf to drape around his neck, but Arcturus was just going to wait until Mahanon got back. He felt very silly, standing there holding his pants up in the middle of the forest.

As soon as Mahanon returned, the older elf burst out into laughter, nearly dropping the armful of weapons he had been carrying.

“You look like a da’len trying on their parents clothes!” Mahanon cried through his laughter, and Arcturus felt his cheeks heat up.

“This was made for a human, not an elf!” He hissed, and tried to cross his arms with his pants still held in one hand. He failed, and Mahanon laughed harder.  Arcturus scowled at him, and Mahanon couldn’t meet his eyes as he laid out the weapons.

“I can hem it so it can fit you, Arcturus,” Mahanon gasped, fighting through his laughter. “I just needed to see how much I need to tailor.”

Arcturus merely scowled harder. Mahanon fished around in his pack, and came up with a spool of string and a needle.

“Here, let me map out what I need to take in, and then you can change back,” Mahanon said soothingly, and stepped behind Arcturus. He grabbed the hem of the pants, and Arcturus remained still as the older elf started to fold the fabric. Once Mahanon was done, he moved onto the outer coat, and then the shirt.

“There!” Mahanon said, finally, and leaned back. “Take those off, and I’ll finish sewing those when we stop for the night.”

Arcturus complied, and slipped back his regular clothes on with a sigh. He preferred these much, much more. Mahanon slid the uniforms into his backpack, and stood up with a sigh. Arcturus rolled up his bedroll carefully, and then faced Mahanon.

“Let’s go. We need to reach the Frostback foothills by dark,” Mahanon said.

* * *

They decided to cross the Frostbacks at a different spot than Mahanon originally planned. The roads were more heavily traveled as the day of the Conclave drew nearer and nearer; it was a week away at this point. The roads were rife with nobles, mercenaries, bandits, and most importantly to Mahanon,  _ spies.  _ Arcturus knew that they had no invitations, and would have to get into the Temple of Sacred Ashes another way. And, as Mahanon had reminded Arcturus, witnessing a dragon crossing over the Frostback Mountains through the main pass would likely have the event called off. Past the mountain pass, it was only three days journey to Haven, and Arcturus would likely attract too much attention. They would cross elsewhere, at night.

“Are you sure you’re warm enough? Arcturus asked again as Mahanon secured the straps of their packs to himself. Mahanon was bundled in every scrap of fur and fabric they had gathered over the trip, and his face was hidden from sight.  Overhead, the moon shone over the glistening snowy tips of the Frostbacks, and when Arcturus exhaled he could see his breath. He was shivering currently, but when he was back in his true form he could stand the cold far better. 

Mahanon sighed.

“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll also be using my magic to keep myself warmer, and to ensure I have enough air. Do you remember the directions? You won’t be able to hear me over the wind,” he said, his voice barely audible through the fabric. In response, Arcturus backed away, and let himself transform. Mahanon settled himself into Arcturus’ claws, and Arcturus took off.

The Frostbacks were enormous, and Arcturus relished the stretch in his wings as he circled higher and higher, until he was level with the lowest gap in the mountain peaks. His scales glowed under the moonlight, and as he crested over the mountain, his claws knocking off the top layer of snow, the sight beyond took his breath away. 

The snow on the slopes of the mountain stretched down into a valley, untouched and glistening, dusting the tops of trees and rocks. In the distance, Arcturus could see the line of Frostbacks continue. There was a large dirt road visible, cleared of snow, and even from this distance Arcturus could make out people traveling, their torches gleaming in the night like red stars. Pilgrims, heading to the Conclave.

Arcturus snapped his wings close, and pulled into a dive. He heard Mahanon shout, but the Dalish elf’s voice was soon drowned out by the wind whistling past his ears. Arcturus descended from the mountains quickly, and soared over the tops of the trees, getting closer and closer to the main road. The night was clear; Arcturus couldn’t risk flying over the road and potentially spooking the pilgrims. Instead, about half a mile from the main road, Arcturus found a snowy clearing and landed with a heavy  _ thump,  _ scattering snow and ice everywhere. He released Mahanon from his claws, and then began the laborious transformation as he pressed himself into something smaller, squisher. 

When he finally finished, kneeling in the snow and gasping for breath in his new lungs, Mahanon draped a blanket over his shivering shoulders. The older el was free of his blanket cocoon, and now wore his own mercenary outfit.

“Here, get on the tarp, and warm yourself up,” Mahanon said, leading Arcturus to a blanket laid out over the snow. “I’ll get your outfit ready, and repack the bags. We’ll need to be on the road before the moon dips over the horizon. Hopefully we can find a mercenary group to trail.”

Arcturus rubbed his arms until he no longer felt the cold, and then put on the padded clothes that Mahanon had altered. Once the scarf was draped over the coat and his hands were in gloves, Arcturus felt much better. Tying back his hair with a strip of leather, Arcturus accepted his pack from Mahanon.

“Let’s get moving,” Arcturus told Mahanon. “I want to get to your Conclave as soon as possible. It’s a straight shot from here to the road, if a bit of the walk. I didn’t want to startle the humans.”

Mahanon smiled, and started walking through the trees.

“Good boy.” He said cheerfully. “You’re learning. Maybe next time you encounter a town you won’t go peering through the windows and scaring the shems.”

Arcturus scowled at him.

“That was only one time!” He protested, and Mahanon laughed.  Arcturus smacked the older elf’s shoulder, but Mahanon only laughed harder.

* * *

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was enormous, but not as large as the crowds that the Conclave drew. Arcturus had never seen so many people in one place, ever. His only experience with crowds had been Master Tarsian’s camp, and the elves of Clan Lavellan. Now there were merchants lining the roads with their wagons painted in cheerful colors, hawking their stores of food or drink to the pilgrims passing through.

Nobles passed through frequently, their entourages of guards pushing aside people on the road and forcing other wagons to pull over. Arcturus could barely keep track of Mahanon in the crowd. There were so many humans with so many varying skin colors and hairstyles and outfits, all talking in strange tongues or Trade as they walked past. Arcturus and Mahanon were swallowed by the crown, and even Mahanon’s strange face tattoos were normal next to the large Qunari mercenary group passing through the crowds, or the groups of mages passing through. 

Mahanon was forced to hold onto Arcturus’ hand, lest Arcturus get distracted, much to Arcturus’ embarrassment. He couldn’t help it; the majority of his life had been lived in a desert with a small amount of people. Now there was snow on the ground and there were dwarves and Qunari and elves and Orlesians in fancy outfits and everything was so strange, so new. He wanted to sit back and drink it all in, but Mahanon remained his anchor, dragging him through the crowds as Haven grew closer and closer.

“We’ll head straight up to the Conclave, and find somewhere to stash our bags before the talks start,” Mahanon said quietly, following behind a burly group of Qunari mercenaries as the horned warriors made their way up the slope. Arcturus stared at the Qunari as they walked. One of them was speaking animatedly in Qunlat, gesturing wildly at himself and at the air as he spoke. 

Arcturus could pick up familiar sounding words from his time with Taardathras, but nothing solid. The warrior talking had thick, long white hair done up in braids and bedecked with beads, and his horns were cut. The rest of the Qunari laughed at something he said, and the long-haired Qunari laughed with them. Arcturus couldn’t help but look; the warriors were huge, and well muscled, their grey skin gleaming in the sunlight. Arcturus found the whole sight… pleasing, and as the wind picked up, he could faintly smell dragon on each of them.

It wasn’t until Mahanon nudged him in the side that Arcturus tore his gaze away.

“See something you like?” Mahanon said, winking, and Arcturus snorted and shoved the other elf away. He didn’t need to say anything; Mahanon radiated delighted smugness as Arcturus turned his gaze from the burly Qunari back to the path up to the temple gates.

When the Qunari arrived at the temple, they were stopped by the guards at the gates. Mahanon and Arcturus stood off to one side along with a large crowd as one of the Qunari produced a slip of paper. One of the guards looked at it, and then wrinkled his nose.

“Your invitation says only seven of you are permitted inside the temple, ox. The rest of you will have to remain outside during the talks.”

Several of the Qunari started to protest, but the white-haired warrior lifted up one hand. He spoke to the rest of the mercenaries, and then half of them broke away to stand with him. The white-haired warrior turned back to the guards, and gestured to the other half of the group.

“These are the ones who will enter. The rest of our kith will wait in Haven, and speak to your superiors,” He said, his Common strangely accented. The guard at the front sneered as the chosen Qunari passed through.

“You do that, ox,” He said, as the white-haired warrior led the Qunari back down the path. “You’ll get the same answer from him.”

As the Qunari left, Mahanon pulled Arcturus aside.

“We’ll have to go another way,” He whispered. “We don’t have any kind of invitation, but there must be other ways into this temple.”

Arcturus nodded, and followed quietly as Mahanon moved back down the mountain, out of sight of the guards at the gate. Once they were out of sight, Mahanon started down the side of the hill, plunging nearly knee deep into snow. Arcturus followed him, and soon they were out of sight of the walls.

“There are trees that lead nearly up to the temple itself on the other side of this slope,” Mahanon explained as they crept along, circling around the temple. “We’ll use the trees as cover, and then I’ll give you a boost over the wall. You’ll pull me up, and then we’ll just find our way to the main debate area.”

“Sounds good,” Arcturus responded, and they started to climb higher.

The going was difficult; the slopes were swollen with freshly fallen snow, and the rocks were covered with thin sheets of ice. They were both out of breath by the time they reached the trees, and the tips of Arcturus’ ears were going numb, along with his fingers. He used the branches as levers to pull himself higher, glad that Mahanon was breaking the snow and creating footholds ahead of him. 

The sun was starting to dip lower in the sky when they finally reached a point where they could access the wall, and Arcturus’ clothes were stained with sweat and melted snow. They both leaned against the wall, panting, and spent a few minutes to catch their breath. There was no patrol in sight, at least, not yet.

“Alright,” Mahanon finally said, “Here we go. Arcturus, stand right next to the wall, and don’t move.”

Arcturus obeyed, and watched as Mahanon unslung the staff that was holstered on his back. Mahanon’s hands lit up, and Arcturus nearly stumbled forward as the ground beneath him shuddered before it rose into the air. He was being lifted on a pillar of ice, carefully ascending the wall up to the top. Once the top was in reach, Arcturus reached up and hauled himself onto the battlements. 

“Alright, you next,” Arcturus said, reaching down and stretching out a hand for Mahanon. The other elf nodded, and took his place next to the wall. His hands shimmered, and the next ice block started to rise.

“Hey!” Someone shouted, and Arcturus stood up quickly. A band of armored soldiers had come around the far corner of the wall, and at the sight of the two elves they quickly unsheathed their swords. “Stop, and surrender yourselves!”

“Go! Run!” Arcturus hissed, and Mahanon jumped off the block of ice, half slipping and sliding down the snowy mountain slope. Half of the soldiers broke away from the group to follow him, and the rest started aiming crossbows at Arcturus. Arcturus ducked away from the edge of the battlements, and looked around wildly for an escape.

He would go somewhere and hide, and then meet up with Mahanon later. There were some stairs leading down towards the elegant buildings, and Arcturus dashed down that way. Behind him, he could hear the soldier shouting orders to the others over the wall. They would alert the other guards soon, and there would be a search. He had to find a good hiding place. 

Arcturus made his way into the Temple of Sacred Ashes in a panic. Anytime he heard voices in one corridor, he would dart down another hallway, ducking behind each statue or piece of art that would hide him temporarily. It seemed that the deeper he went into the temple, the less people he found. Eventually he found himself in a narrow corridor with a low stone roof, his footsteps muffled by a rich red carpet. Arcturus slowed down, and leaned against one of the walls. He was lost, both literally and physically, and he hoped that the soldiers hadn’t caught Mahanon on the mountain. How was he supposed to meet up with him now? 

_ “Someone, help me!” _

The voice startled Arcturus out of his thoughts; it had come from just down the hallway. Why would someone be calling for help here? Against his better judgement, Arcturus moved down the hallway towards the sound. As he drew nearer to a set of double wooden doors, he heard another voice speak up. He couldn’t understand the words, but the voice… The voice itself was deep and  _ wrong,  _ and it made Arcturus want to transform and bare his teeth. He approached the doors, and shoved them so that they swung open with a loud bang. 

  
“What’s going on here?” Arc turus growled before taking in the bizarre scene. Strange men and women wearing blue and silver, and a creature that felt  _ wrong, so wrong  _ holding a glowing red orb standing next to an old woman in a funny hat, suspended in midair. As the creature turned to face him, the old woman took action. She kicked the orb out of the creature’s hand, and it rolled to the floor next to Arcturus.  Instinctively, he bent down to pick it up. 

There was a brief, searing pain in Arcturus’ hand where the orb made contact. The creature screamed, and then the world exploded into green before fading into black.

  
  



	10. The Beginning of Andraste's Dragon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arcturus becomes a Herald of a Maker he's barely heard of in a human organization that a dragon really has no place being in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank every single one of the people who left kudos and wonderful comments on the last chapter. You guys got me through a dark time in my life, and I'm sorry for the lack of updates.
> 
> Please take this- I've been mulling on it for too long, and I had to push myself in order to finish it. Now that the intro is over, we can dive right into the main plot!

Arcturus could hear snatches of voices above him, but his body and mind felt as heavy as lead. He felt hazy, and his memory  distant. He barely remembered green flashes, dark eyes and needle sharp teeth clicking together, and strangely enough a woman, cast in blazing white light.

Beyond that, there was nothing. Arcturus’ mind was swamped by a heavy, green haze, and his body blazed with constant pain. He was only distantly aware of the voices and movement around him; he was a passenger in his own body. His boots were knocking together, and a bony shoulder was pressing into his midriff. Someone was carrying him, and as Arcturus slowly came to that realization, he could suddenly hear with perfect clarity.

“Seeker, I must protest this plan of yours. The prisoner is barely stabilized, and he has given no indications of waking up at present. Throwing him in the dungeon--” One of the voices started, only to be cut off by another voice’s frustrated sigh. Arcturus felt warm leather under his cheek as the person carrying him shifted.

“There _is_ no other option, Solas,” The female voice said. “There was another attempt on his life this morning. The people here are frightened and desperate, increasingly so as the Breach grows wider. This is the safest place we can keep the prisoner until he wakes.”

There was the clang of a metal door opening, and then Arcturus felt himself being slowly lowered onto a layer of thin furs. His cheek rested against a freezing stone floor, and Arcturus’ head slumped to one side.

“I was not informed that another attempt had been made,” The male voice called Solas said sharply, drawing closer to Arcturus. “And what about our prisoner’s companion, the Dalish mage? Will he be moved to the cells as well?”

  
“He will be shortly,” The ‘Seeker’ said. Arcturus felt a pang of worry for Mahanon, but he was currently losing the fight to open his eyes. “He’s currently occupied at the healer’s tent, but Cullen has some of the less injured templars keeping him secure. We are fortunate that the people have not discovered the connection between our two prisoners.”

“Yes, how fortunate,” Solas said, although he sounded less than happy.

Someone knelt by Arcturus’ side, and a clammy, cold hand grasped his chin and pried open his mouth. Water was trickled into his mouth from wineskin, and he swallowed it automatically. Arcturus drank until the skin was empty, and then the same person turned him over and draped furs over his prone form.

“Well, the prisoner appears to be recovering,” Solas said as he stood back up and shut the cell door behind him with a loud clang. “He didn’t need to be coaxed to drink, and he doesn’t seem to be in too much pain. His fever is gone as well. I believe he may wake up within a few days.”

“Good,” The Seeker said vindictively, her tone sharp and vicious. If Arcturus could have shied away from her, he would have. He heard the sharp rap of boots on the stone floor, and then a key turned in the lock. The two walked away quickly afterwards in silence, and Arcturus felt himself fading. He felt like he was being drawn elsewhere, and despite his best efforts, Arcturus spiraled back into darkness.

* * *

“I told you, shemlen, that I know nothing about the Breach!”

Arcturus woke to the sound of Mahanon’s voice, rougher and harsher than usual. He still felt weak and numb, but he was able to pry open his eyelids a crack. He was positioned on his side, and through the bars he could see Mahanon kneeling in the center of the dungeon, his hands bound behind his back. His long black hair was unbound and tangled, his tunic was covered in mud, and he was glaring up at two women standing in front of him.

  
One of them had darker skin and black hair, and wore armor with a strange eye emblazoned on the breastplate. The other wore purple, and her hood concealed her face. Mahanon’s face was bleeding; it looked like he had been punched in the nose several times, and there was a cut on his lip. As Arcturus watched, the black haired woman leaned down and seized Mahanon by the front of his tunic.

“You’re lying!” She snarled, and smacked Mahanon across the face. “The captain of the guard caught you and the other prisoner breaking into the Temple of Sacred Ashes mere minutes before the explosion. You created a diversion to draw the attention of the guards while your accomplice did the deed. How did you accomplish this? What kind of magic did you use?!”

Mahanon spat blood onto the woman’s cheek, and she flung him back down to the stone floor. “ _Delavir shemlen*!_ I told you, I have nothing to do with the explosion! I was sent by my Keeper to keep tabs on the Conclave, but you shem would never issue the Dalish an invitation,” He growled, struggling back onto his knees. “ _Dara dhama fra a dar’misaan sule a sil gara or a masa*!_

The black-haired woman drew her arm back for another blow, but the woman in purple stepped forward.

“Cassandra, enough. We have more pressing matters to attend to,” She said, and then gestured to the men wearing armor stationed near the door of the dungeon. “Guards, place him back in his cell, and withhold his food rations for the rest of the day. Move the other prisoner to the center of the dungeon and chain him there. If there’s any changes, send a messenger.”

  
The two men in armor saluted, and dragged Mahanon away to a cell on the other side of the room. Arcturus let his eyes slide shut as the woman in purple moved over to his cell. He tried to push himself up, but he was still too weak. Arcturus was going to kill these women for what they did to Mahanon. He would watch their faces contort in horror when he got out of the dungeon and transformed. _No one harms my friends,_ he thought, as darkness pulled him back under. _No one._

* * *

 Arcturus shot up off the ground with a scream as his left hand burned, shooting agonizing waves of pain up his arm and through his body. He struggled onto his knees as his left hand shuddered violently under the pain, and a blinding green light filled his vision. As Arcturus tried to cradle his arm to his chest, a tug on his wrists stopped him from doing so. He opened his eyes, and saw that now he was being kept in the center of the small, dark dungeon as the woman in purple had ordered.

 _  
_ His hands were shackled in front of him, and a chain looped through the shackles kept him anchored to the stone floor. Arcturus’ eyes watered as the pain suddenly vanished, and he slumped over, catching his breath in ragged gasps. He brought up his left hand for inspection, and cried out again as the strange green mark there flared painfully to life once more.

“The prisoner’s awake! Merrow, go inform the Seeker!” Someone hissed nearby, and Arcturus looked up to see five guards in poor fitting armor circling him warily, their swords unsheathed and pointed directly at him. A sixth guard was already at the door, and when he opened it Arcturus could see a dark corridor beyond, and stairs leading up. He was underground then, but where was Mahanon? Arcturus turned his head slightly, and saw that the cell was empty. He was the only prisoner here.

 _Where is he?_ Arcturus made to stand up, and the circle of guards flinched back before they closed in.

“Sit down!” One of the guards barked in Trade, and roughly grabbed Arcturus’ shoulder to shove him back to his knees. The cloth under the human’s armor was frayed and thin, and so Arcturus took his chance. As Arcturus went back down, he shifted forward and sank his teeth into the man’s arm. The man screamed and the other guards rushed forward. He smiled through a mouthful of blood as one of the humans seized him by the roots of his hair and yanked his head back, tearing him free of the injured guard. The guard on his left lifted up his sword, but another one of the guards caught the man’s arm.

“The Seeker told us to keep him alive,” The second guard said bitterly. “He’s our only lead; we can’t afford to kill him. Men, secure the prisoner.”

The injured human fell back, clutching his arm to his chest, and the other guards closed ranks. Arcturus copied Mahanon’s earlier move and spat blood at their feet as they slammed his cheek against the cold hard stone, trapping his arms under his chest. The guard holding his hair yanked his head back again, and another guard wrapped a length of chain around it.

“Fucking knife-ear!” One of the guards barked, spitting directly onto Arcturus’ cheek as he lashed the length of chain to the ground, forcing Arcturus’ forehead to touch the ground.

“ _Vishante kaffas!”_ Arcturus spat back at him, reverting back to his native tongue. No doubt none of them understood Tevene, but his intent was clear. He got a slap across the cheek for his trouble.

Once the chains were secured to the ground, the guards moved back to their original posts, save the injured guard, who staggered out of the dungeon with a cloth wrapped around his bleeding arm. Arcturus smirked at his retreating back, and took in his new position.

He was kneeling with his hands bound behind his back, a chain around his neck keeping his forehead resting on his knees. His greasy, tangled blonde hair fell around his face like a curtain, obscuring most of the room. Arcturus squirmed, but the chains had no give. Until this “Seeker” arrived, he was well and truly stuck.

He grimaced as the strange mark on his palm lit up again, and pain wracked his body. Now that he was thinking about it, how did he get the mark? Arcturus wracked his mind, but he couldn’t dredge up any memories. He remembered scaling the wall, fleeing from the guards, entering the Temple, and then… nothing. Blackness.

The door to the dungeon swung open, and both Cassandra and the woman in purple entered slowly. Cassandra scowled at him, and moved forward slowly, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword. The woman in purple remained near the door, half hidden in the shadows. Cassandra finally moved behind him, and out of the corner of his eye Arcturus saw her lean down closer.

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now,” She said calmly, straightening back up again and starting to pace around him again. “The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you.”

 _“I have done nothing!”_ Arcturus spat at her in Tevene as she reappeared back in his vision. _“What have you done with Mahanon? Where is my friend?”_

The woman in purple gaze at him sharply, and Cassandra took a step back. They exchanged glances, and finally, the woman in purple approached him.

“Do you speak Trade?” She asked harshly, and Arcturus nodded. Cassandra lunged forward, and then seized his glowing hand.

“Explain this!” She grunted, and Arcturus shook his head.

“I don’t know what that is, or how it got there,” He rasped, his air constricted by the tight chain. His answer didn’t seem to suffice. Cassandra seized him by the shoulders, and shook him harshly, just as she had done to Mahanon.

“You’re lying!” She said, and Arcturus snarled at her, revealing his bloody teeth.

“ _Vadeve venhedis,”_ He snapped back at her, and the woman in purple seized Cassandra’s arm before the Seeker could take her violence a step further.

“We need him, Cassandra,” She said, none too gently, before kneeling in front of Arcturus. “Do you remember what happened at the Conclave? How this began? Your friend told us little that we did not already know.”

Arcturus looked up at her, and weighed his options. Likely Mahanon’s information had been beaten out of him, and his disappearance was worrying. Arcturus glanced back at the other empty cells, and then his mind was made up.

“I entered the Temple after the guards found Mahanon and I on the wall,” Arcturus said haltingly, pausing as he struggled to recall the details. “I was looking for a place to hide so I could meet up with him later. Then… The next thing I know, I’m running. Everything was green, and… _things_ were chasing me. And then, I remember seeing… a woman?”

“A woman?” The lady in purple prompted, folding her arms and circling around him. Her face seemed impassive, but Arcturus was certain that he had her attention now.

“She… reached out to me, but then…” Arcturus began, scrunching his face in concentration as he tried to hold onto the memory. There was nothing beyond that moment, and so Arcturus finished his sentence with a heavy sigh, and shook his head. After he finished, Cassandra strode forward and placed her hand on the woman in purple’s shoulder.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana,” Cassandra said, and then motioned to the guards. “I will take him to the Rift.”

The Rift? What in the name of the heavens was the Rift? Arcturus looked up at Cassandra warily as the guards unchained him from the floor, and unlocked his wrists. When the chain was removed from his neck, Arcturus sat up, trying to work the kinks out of his back and knees before he was manhandled by the guards and forced to his feet. His hands were quickly bound in front of him, with rope this time, and the guards shoved him forward.

Leliana had already vanished from the dungeon by the time Cassandra took him by the arm and started to escort him down the dark hallway, the guards close behind. Arcturus shook the spare strands of hair out of his face, and then faced Cassandra. She stared stoically ahead, but Arcturus could see her jaw was clenched. Up close, he could see the beginning of dark circles under her eyes, and her hair was unwashed.

“What is this Rift you spoke of?” Arcturus ventured cautiously, unable to hold back his curiosity. Cassandra shot him a glare, but then she sighed tiredly.

  
“It would be better to show you,” She said, and that was it. He followed her up the stairs, and into the main part of a large stone building decorated with statues of a woman with fire cupped in her hands. There were people there in silly white outfits and strange hats (where had he seen that kind of hat before), and all of them glared at him as Arcturus as Cassandra strode ahead and threw open the large wooden doors. 

Arcturus threw up his arms as the light from outside blinded him, and then the mark on his hand flared up. The pain drove him to his knees, but Arcturus managed to look up at the sky.

“ _I should have never left Orlais,”_ he moaned, looking away at the gaping green tear that was swallowing the sky. As a highly magical creature, Arcturus could _feel_ the tear expanding, even when his mark did not act up. It was magic on a scale that made Master Tarsian’s spells seem like insect bites.

“We call it ‘The Breach’,” Cassandra stated, her face tinged with unnatural green light. “It’s  a massive rift into the world of demons that grows larger with every passing hour. It’s not the only rift, but the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

“What kind of explosion can do something like this?” Arcturus asked her, pointing up at the Breach. Ominous grey clouds tinged with green were slowly circling the massive rift, and acid tongued lightning flashed in the sky.

“This one did,” Cassandra responded, and then gestured to the guards behind Arcturus. Both men placed their fists against their chests in some kind of salute, and they walked back into the large stone building. “Unless we act, the Breach may grow until it swallows the world. But you won’t live long enough to see it at this rate. That mark connects you to the Breach, and it may be the key to all this.”

As if on cue, the Breach above exploded into light, and Arcturus collapsed back onto his knees, just barely holding in a scream as the mark flared up. The pain was twofold now, if that was possible, and Arcturus’ stomach rebelled. He had nothing in his stomach besides water and bile, and his throat stung as he retched into the snow. Cassandra watched him, her brow furrowed in concern, until he was done throwing up. She looked like she was about to say something, but Arcturus already knew what she was going to say. The mark was killing him, and soon the pain would be too much for his body to bear. He spat out the last of the bile, and looked right into her dark eyes.

“I’ll do whatever you ask of me,” Arcturus said. “Whatever it takes to stop the Breach, I’ll do it.”

Cassandra nodded, her expression hopeful. She helped him stand once more, and placed a hand on the small of his back as she steered him towards the center of the village.

“We don’t have much time,” she said. “We must get to the forward camp as soon as we can.”

Arcturus nodded, and allowed the Seeker to steer him forward. His appearance hadn’t gone unnoticed by the residents of the village; a crowd had gathered to watch Cassandra lead him forward. Injured soldiers, weary civilians, and everyone in between stood on both sides of the path, each of them glaring straight at him. A soldier spat at his feet, and then the insults started. It seemed only Cassandra’s presence kept them from escalation from outright physical violence; Arcturus winced as a thrown stone grazed his cheek, drawing a thin line of blood.

“They have decided your guilt. They need it,” Cassandra said, easily raising her voice over the crowd. Arcturus gritted his teeth and kept his head down and his shoulders up, ready to deflect any incoming blows. “We mourn our Most Holy, Divine Justinia, Head of the Chantry. The Conclave was hers, but she perished in the explosion. It was a chance for peace between mages and templars.”

Arcturus remained silent as they progressed through the crowd and a path towards a bridge. He didn’t understand why that would be any excuse to potentially beat him to death over. This Divine Justinia seemed to be important, although he didn’t know why. Cassandra had thrown the word ‘holy’ in there, and Taardathras had taught him nothing on the topic of religion; Master Tarsian sometimes mentioned the Chantry, or the Maker, but other than that what Cassandra was spouting meant absolutely nothing to him.

Perhaps Justinia was an important figure? She had to be, she was the one who organized the whole Conclave that Mahanon trekked months across dangerous territory to see. Arcturus could certainly get behind peace; he had had enough mages and templars trying to kill him on the journey over. As the doors to the bridge opened, Cassandra began to wind up her speech.

“We lash out like the sky. But we must think beyond ourselves, as she did. Until the Breach is sealed,” She said firmly, taking the lead. She withdrew a dagger from a sheath at her belt, and Arcturus backed up quickly.

“I can promise a trial,” Cassandra vowed, and pulled Arcturus forward by the hands. “Nothing more.”

She sliced through the bonds, and Arcturus took another step away from her, rubbing at the raw skin around his wrists. He had not felt the pain there for some time; the scar tissue from his previous shackles had numbed the nerves considerably. Once his arms were in the best shape they could possibly be, Arcturus nodded to Cassandra.

“Let’s not waste any more time,” He told her, and they both moved down the length of the bridge. It was chaos. There were soldiers moving everywhere, carrying bodies or clutching wounds. Objects were falling from the Breach, encased in that otherworldly green light. The mark flared up again, and Cassandra was forced to lend Arcturus her shoulder after he nearly collapsed. The pain was getting worse each time.

They only made it as far as the second bridge before the sky came crashing down and they fell onto the frozen river below. Arcturus rolled to break his fall, but he still cracked the side of his head against a chunk of ice as he landed. By some stroke of luck, none of the falling pieces of stone had hit him. His vision wobbling, Arcturus looked up to see the ice ahead of him bubbling with an otherworldly substance. As he watched, a demon with dark skin and twisted limbs wrenched itself out of the ground.

Cassandra was already on her feet; drawing her sword, she charged the creature. Arcturus mentally cheered the human on as he slowly pushed himself to his feet using one of the crumbled blocks of stone for support, trying to clear his blurry vision. He stumbled backwards and fell onto his ass as the ground before him started to bubble as well.

Cassandra was occupied with fighting the other demon; Arcturus scuttled backwards as a second demon rose from the ground, its clawed hands grasping at him. He felt his back brush up against something, and he turned his head to find that a supply crate had smashed open and various weapons were scattered behind him on, half buried under the rubble.

  
A large sword lay just inches from his hand; Arcturus snatched it up immediately, and hauled himself to his feet. The sword felt heavy in his hand, and it was nearly twice as long as his body. Wielding it with two hands, Arcturus lifted the weapon over his head and brought it down on the shade’s arms. The demon screeched as one of its arms was severed, and its black blood splattered all over Arcturus’ face and sword.

The creature retreated backwards, and Arcturus took a moment to catch his breath. When he inhaled, the scent of blood filled his nose, and the world seemed to snap into focus. The pain from the wound on the side of his head seemed to dull and fade away, and then the world revolved around Arcturus and the demon.

Arcturus lunged forward, the blade in his hands suddenly weightless, and hacked the demon’s other limb off. It screamed at him in pain, and Arcturus stepped forward again and brought his blade around, putting all his strength into the swing as he chopped into where he reckoned the neck was located.

The demon’s head went swirling into the air, and Arcturus momentarily enjoyed the warm shower of blood before the corpse crumpled to the ground and vanished into a pile of green goo. His heart was pounding, but Arcturus had never felt better. He grinned as Cassandra pulled her sword out of her demon’s chest and then turned to face him. Her brow darkened as she spotted the giant sword in his hand, and she stormed over.

“Drop your weapon!” Cassandra demanded, brandishing her own weapon. Arcturus’ hands itched; he wanted to lash out. His arms and legs shook with adrenaline, but slowly, the world was slowly coming back to him. He let the sword drop out of his trembling fingers and leaned against one of the nearby stones as the adrenaline surge abruptly cut out and his limbs started to protest.

“My apologies,” Arcturus panted. “I did not mean to pick up a weapon. I only took it to defend myself.”

Cassandra nodded, but pursed her lips. She sheathed her sword, but after a moment she flung up her hands and made a disgusted noise.

“Wait. The path ahead is dangerous, and I cannot protect you,” she said, and motioned to the sword. “Take it. I should remember that you did not try to run.”

Arcturus nodded and plucked the greatsword from the ice, holding it awkwardly out in front of him. He made certain the tip was nowhere near Cassandra as he cast around for the weapon’s sheath, or anything he could use to secure it to himself. After he found nothing but rubble, he shrugged and hefted the flat of the blade onto his right shoulder.

“Let’s go then,” he said, “before more demons block the path ahead.”

He gestured for Cassandra to take the lead, and she moved past him and off of the surface of the frozen river. Arcturus adjusted his grip on the greatsword, and followed her cautiously. Cassandra kept her shield at the ready as they walked down the snow-laden path, and she kept looking at Arcturus over her shoulder. Arcturus kept his expression as blank as he could manage, and maintained his pace of walking exactly three steps behind her.

His arms shook under the unfamiliar weight of the large sword, but he wasn’t going to let the human know about his weakness unless it was absolutely necessary. Arcturus gritted his teeth and looked over Cassandra’s shoulder, but all he could see was the path ahead through the rocks. How much farther was the Breach, anyway?

* * *

“Get up. The others are just ahead,” Cassandra barked above him. Arcturus groaned and kept his eyes closed, fumbling around blindly for the hilt of his greatsword. His ribs ached, and every breath felt like inhaling shards of glass. Strong hands seized him by the shoulders and hoisted him up, and Arcturus nearly screamed as every part of his chest protested.

The demons were growing more and more numerous each time, and they were growing more and more adept at clawing past Arcturus’ inelegant attempts to fend them off. THe last demon had tackled him to the ground and together they had tumbled down a few rows of stone steps. Warm blood was trickling down his nose and chin, and Arcturus welcomed the heat; he was going numb in all his extremities where the icy wind wormed its way through the gaps in his armor.

Arcturus opened his eyes to see Cassandra looking at him, her expression inscrutable, before propping him up against one of the pillars that lined the stone steps. Arcturus sagged against it gratefully as Cassandra picked up his greatsword, and thrust the hilt into his shaking hands.

“We must keep moving,” she said, her tone harsh. “The others are just ahead, and they may need our help.”

“You mentioned the others,” Arcturus bit back raggedly, resisting the urge to sit down and just rest his eyes for a little while. “Who else is fighting?”

“You’ll see,” Cassandra said cryptically, and then she tugged on Arcturus’ arm, leading him forward. Arcturus followed wearily, squinting up at the steps ahead through nearly frozen eyelashes. He never thought he’d miss the heat of the Wastes, but by now even the thick mercenary coat was soaked through.

As they neared the top of the steps, Arcturus could pick up the sounds of swords clashing and the strange growling the demons produced. _That must be the others that she spoke of,_ he thought dully. He kept an arm wrapped around his ribs as they ascended the steps and the noise of the fight grew louder and louder.

Cassandra dropped his arm as soon as she saw soldiers doing battle with various demons. A strange green _thing_ shone in the air above the walled ruins, and as Arcturus watched a bolt of the same acidic green light shot out of the _thing_ and materialized a new demon, knocking back one of the soldiers nearby.

Cassandra charged into the fray, drawing her sword instantly and hacking one of the demons in half as it cornered one of the soldiers. There was an elf in the midst of the demons as well, his wooden staff flashing with blue light as he froze several of the things solid. A dwarf stood next to him, armed with a strange contraption Arcturus didn’t recognize.

Arcturus let Cassandra draw the attention of the demonic forces present, and instead weakly lunged out to hit another demon that was pushing back a heavily bleeding soldier. He let the weight of the sword do the most damage, and a blow that was originally aimed at the demon’s head instead plunged into its chest area.

It screeched once before dissolving into a pile of goo, and the soldier he had saved nodded at him before returning to the battle. Arcturus let the human go ahead of him, and tried to stay out of anyone’s way as the fight started to wrap up. He watched Cassandra savagely beat down the last demon and then sagged against one of the walls, grateful for the lull.

“Quickly! Before more come through!”

Arcturus yelped as the elf mage suddenly seized his throbbing left hand, jostling his ribs painfully, and held it up to the strange green tear in the sky. His hand shook violently, and a searing pain shot down his arm and into his palm. Arcturus tasted blood in his mouth as his arm was wrenched into the sky, and green light shot from the mark on his palm. As soon as the light connected with the mark, every muscle in Arcturus’ body seized, and then the world faded away into white.

* * *

Faint voices. Arcturus could hear people around him, and then a swaying sensation. Something cold and hard dug into his ribs and stomach, and his cheek was smashed against freezing metal. The voices grew louder, but Arcturus still couldn’t make out what they were saying. Every muscle ached, and he was content to stay in comforting darkness.

“Seeker, I sense a rift up ahead. We’re going to need the prisoner’s assistance. I’ve done all I can for the mark; it is still slowly killing him. I can do nothing for the pain.”

“I appreciate your efforts, Solas. Varric, do you have something that could revive the prisoner? He’d choke on a potion as he is right now.”

“Give me but a moment, Seeker. I may just have what we need.”

The next thing Arcturus knew, something agonizingly _foul_ was shoved under his nose, and he was violently returned to full consciousness with a gasp. His nostrils _burned_ , and he rolled away from where he had been resting to bury his face in the snow.

“Works every time,” a voice chuckled behind him. “Stuff always comes in handy, especially if your entire friend group like to get roaring drunk every night.”

“Spare me the details, Varric,” Cassandra groaned from somewhere nearby. Once Arcturus’ nostrils no longer felt like someone had shoved spices up them, he weakly rose to his feet and wiped his face on his sleeve and examined the painful tingling from his marked hand.  His whole arm felt raw, but there was nothing but unmarked skin to show for it. Around the mark, Arcturus could see that his own veins glowed a vicious green. Cassandra cleared her throat loudly, and he found that he was in an entirely new location.

He had been propped up against a frozen stone wall facing the shore of a frozen lake. To his left, there was a set of steps half buried in snow that led up a steep hill presumably to the base camp and onwards to the Breach. 

To his right, Cassandra stood over him with a dwarf holding a strange crossbow and the shoddily-dressed elf mage who thrust his arm into the Rift, her arms crossed.

“Good, you’re awake,” Cassandra said brusquely, and helped Arcturus to his feet. “Your pulses are coming faster. It may be affected by your distance from the Breach.”

Arcturus held his hand up, wincing at the pain that sparked down to his wrist when he tried to wriggle his fingers.

“Where are we?” he asked, gingerly cradling his throbbing hand. “What happened with the Rift?”

“You closed the Rift,” The bald elf stated, leaning forward onto his staff. He was dressed shoddily, with clothes in worse condition than Arcturus’ stolen uniform. “Whatever Magic opened the Breath also placed that mark upon your hand. I theorized that your mark could possibly close the rifts, and it appears I was correct.”

“Now that we know it works, it means your mark could possibly close the Breach!” Cassandra interjected before Arcturus could respond, her expression hopeful. The bald elf nodded, and Arcturus glanced down at the mark before looking up at the massive hole in the sky.

“I’m not sure,” he said carefully. “I could barely handle closing this Rift. It saps my strength, and the Breach is far larger. I might not be able to put a dent in it, let alone close it.”

As he said it, the dwarf with the crossbow stepped forward, and uncrossed his arms.

“You’re the best we have, Sunshine, so let’s get to the Breach before more demons crash the party,” he said, and winked. “The name’s Varric Tethras: Rogue, Storyteller, and occasional unwanted tagalong.”

Varric winked again, and Cassandra made a disgusted noise behind him. Apparently, this was a common theme with the two of them. Arcturus pressed a fist to his chest, and bowed forward slightly in the Tevinter fashion. Cassandra had met him at swordpoint, and as such formalities weren’t necessary. Now, though, Arcturus recalled the manners drilled into him.

“Pleased to meet you, Varric,” he said, and straightened back up, “I am Arcturus.”

“You may come to reconsider that stance in time,” The bald elf snarked, before stepping forward. “My am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I am pleased to see you still live.”

“He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept,’” Varric said, smirking, and Solas dipped his head in acknowledgement, a small smile playing across his lips. Arcturus shuddered at the thought of a mage, no matter how friendly, putting hands on him while he slept.

“Indeed,” Solas said diplomatically, turning to Cassandra. “Cassandra, you should know: The magic here is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Your prisoner is no mage. Indeed, it hard to believe any mage has such power. We should move now, before more demons fall through the Breach. If the mark is sapping Arcturus’ strength, we may not have much time. It must be a miracle that he has held out so far, considering.” 

Arcturus averted his eyes from Solas’ piercing gaze as he unsheathed his greatsword, and let Cassandra take the lead up the stairs. He had a guess as to what kept him from succumbing to the mark, and it was large, purple, and powerful. If he hadn’t been a dragon, he shuddered to think what would have happened, but he also had to keep his secret safe. He had already caught Solas and Cassandra staring at the scale patterns across his cheeks.

As they departed, Varric fell into step besides Arcturus, cradling his impressive crossbow lovingly. When the dwarf caught Arcturus staring, he hefted it into the air with a grin.

“Well, Bianca’s excited!” he declared cheerily, and winked.

The journey up the hill was arduous. The steps were slick with ice, and the ascent only got steeper as the group climbed further up. Arcturus kept his eyes on the sky; the the Breach rumbled ominously above them, threatening to spill more demons into their world. They encountered trouble around halfway up the stairs in the form of two translucent green spirits with vaguely human features that shot bolts of energy from their perches further up the slope.

Arcturus remained in the back with Varric as Cassandra blazed a path through the thick snow, her massive shield raised in front of her face. Solas’ froze one of the spirits solid, and it vanished with a shriek as one of Varric’s arrows pierced it’s core.

Cassandra made quick work of the other, and wiped strange goo from her sword before they resumed their journey. At the top of the hill, Arcturus could see smoke billowing into the sky, and the crumbled portion of a wooden palisade. As they neared the crest, he could see the wooden wall leading into a high stone gate with barred wooden doors. Two soldiers armed with bows stood there, both firing at demons gathered under another Rift. When the party drew closer, Arcturus winced as the mark on his hand started to crackle and spark.

Almost as one, the demons turned their attention from the soldiers guarding the gates and onto Arcturus himself. He felt a strange energy settle over him as Solas gestured with his staff, and he looked down to see some sort of blue barrier covering him and his armor like a second skin. It tingled, not unpleasantly, but the Arcturus was all too familiar how quickly magic could become malevolent.

When Master Tarsian was pleased, it was like the warm desert sun at dawn, when the heat was a relief from the subzero temperatures. When Arcturus incurred his wrath, the heat turned from gentle warmth to the inferno of midday, when the heat was so intense that any water on the surface of the land evaporated in great clouds of vapor.

Arcturus ignored Solas’ strange look as he took a violent step away from the mage, hands going up to his arms to try and rub away the barrier, but the onset of demons forced him to abandon his attempt. The first of the creatures slammed its claws against Cassandra’s shield, and two more followed. Arcturus sprang forward, his pain forgotten as his blood, nay, his entire body thrummed with a primal adrenaline.

The sounds of demons screeching and Solas’ casting behind him faded away. There was nothing more than the ichor coating his blood, and a deep, instinctual rage that spurred on his strength. When Arcturus swung, he sheared off arms and inhuman appendages with the same ease a man parted butter. Blood soaked in his his hair and his clothes, and he felt claws tearing at his arms and shoulders, easily parting the cloth.

Distantly, Arcturus knew they had drawn blood, but the injuries only seemed to invigorate him more. The last demon fell, sliced neatly in half by his sword, and Arcturus raised his hand towards the Rift. The world was consumed in white as soon as he made the connection, and pain exploded in him.

The next thing he knew, a glass bottle was forced between his lips, and he opened his eyes to see Cassandra propping him up against her shield. He drank the potion, wincing at the bitter taste, and once she was done he rolled over and promptly stuck the marked hand in the snow- maybe the cold would numb the pain.

“Potions do not help?” She asked, and Arcturus shook his head morosely, his stomach churning. He could feel the wounds on his arm start to scab, but the pain in his arm was nearly all-encompassing.

“Go on in,” He panted, holding his throbbing hand against the soothing cold. “I won’t run off, I promise. I just need a moment alone.”

“At this point, I doubt you would run,” Cassandra said, getting to her feet and slinging her shield over her back. “We are your only hope of getting to the Breach before the mark kills you.”

 _That’s not entirely true,_ he thought bitterly as he watched Cassandra walk away over to where Varric and Solas stood. Varric was walking in his direction, but Cassandra seized the dwarf by the back of his coat and instead dragged him through the now open wooden gate. Solas, however, lingered by, and when Arcturus looked at him the bald elf simply nodded, and kept his distance. Mage or not, he was pathetically grateful, especially now that the strange adrenaline was wearing off and the pain from his wounds was making itself known.

 _Would I even have enough energy for a transformation?_ Arcturus thought bitterly, gazing up at the Breach. It would be a faster way of getting there, and he was running out of time. _Would the mark interfere with the blood magic?_ He knew his shifting was possible through Tarsian’s blood magic, and blood magic itself already seemed to be reality altering. No, he wouldn’t risk it, but the thought that his true self might be taken from him sat leaden in his mind. He tried to rise to his feet, but Arcturus only fell back onto his knees, his joints shaking painfully.

He was about to try again when a pale hand appeared in his field of vision, and he looked up to see Solas standing over him, arm outstretched. The bald elf was surprisingly strong as he hauled Arcturus up, and Arcturus nodded begrudgingly at the mage as he found his footing.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and bowed slightly. Solas’ mouth quirked up into a half smile, and he nodded back.

“It is no problem,” he said simply.

Arcturus staggered past the guards at the gate with Solas at his side, and made his way over to where Cassandra, Leliana, and Varric seemed to be deeply embroiled in an argument with some kind of priest wearing a ludicrous white and red outfit.

The priest glared daggers at him, but with a look from both Cassandra and Leliana the man only crossed his arms, and said nothing.

“We’re discussing our options for the final push,” Varric murmured to him, deliberately concealed from the priest by Cassandra’s bulk. Solas had followed Arcturus, and stood a few paces to his left, his attention taken by the Breach above. “Cassandra is all for taking the straight path up there in a last push. The soldiers will hold off the demon force while we push past to the Breach. Leliana knows of mining tunnels built into the mountains that her scouts have gone through. It would be a bit of a climb, and the main force would serve as a distraction.”

The wounds on Arcturus’ arms throbbed, and as everyone watched, the Breach pulsed to life once more. Arcturus was braced for the pain, but he still cried out as it activated, pulsing in time with the Breach. Once it had died down, Arcturus knew he had to speak up.

“The mountain path is out of the question,” Arcturus interrupted, pushing his blood-caked hair out of his face and stepping forward into the conversation, pulling up his ripped sleeves to reveal the still-healing claw marks. Cassandra’s eyes went wide at the blood surrounding the wound, and Varric whistled worriedly. “I cannot climb in this condition. The mark brings immense pain now, and if it activates while I am halfway on a ladder…”

He trailed deliberately, and Leliana nodded. Behind her, the priest’s gaze was locked on Arcturus’ injuries, as well as his glowing hand.

“We must reach the Temple before the Breach expands any further. Leliana, gather everyone left in the valley,” Cassandra announced, and the men around them burst into a flurry of activity. The wounded were moved, messengers were sent, and Arcturus slowly watched as the remainder of the forces gathered.

“On your head be the consequences, Seeker,” The priest said spitefully, his face illuminated by the sickly green of the Breach.

* * *

Arcturus’ knees trembled violently as the rift flickered and vanished with a burst of green, and only Varric’s hand on his waist kept him from tipping over. The push forward had been brutal, even with Arcturus relegated to the sidelines. He’d had to push forward in order to get closer to the rift, and he’d paid for it in dozen slashes and bruises.

“Easy there, Sunshine,” Varric said, and led Arcturus to a nearby pile of rubble. “Here, take a minute.”

“You called me that earlier, Varric. My name is Arcturus, not Sunshine,” Arcturus stated as he set down his greatsword and sagged against it gratefully, trying to catch his breath. “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“It’s a nickname, Sunshine,” Varric explained, his expression inscrutable. “On account of your hair and sunny disposition. Everyone gets one, like Curly over there.”

He gestured to the Commander whose name Arcturus had missed when Cassandra introduced him earlier. The man didn’t seem to have curly hair, as the nickname would suggest. Instead, his hair was gelled back, and stayed motionless as he carried on a hushed conversation with Cassandra. The whole thing seemed to require elaborate hand gestures. Next to him, Varric was still talking, but Arcturus felt distant, and the noise tuned itself out. The strange adrenaline that had kicked in at the gates of the base camp had been roaring through him from the recent battle.

Even now, he still felt like he was coming down from the rush, and the pain from tingling in his marked hand was growing stronger by the minute. He wasn’t sure why Varric thought he was friendly, but he was too tired to question it. Varric had stopped talking, and was looking at him expectantly.

Arcturus nodded his head at him, hoping that would placate him. Better to be polite, to avoid any incident. There was movement out of the corner of his eye- Cassandra and the Commander had finished their conversation, and Cassandra was heading his way, Solas drifting silently behind her from where he had been examining the rubble of the Temple.

“Oh, I see,” he said neutrally to Varric, hoping that would suffice, and stood up to face Cassandra marched over, the Commander and the remaining soldiers at her heels. She motioned towards the walls that were still standing (and the bodies that remained, twisted and molten and _in agony_ ), and the Breach beyond.

“The area is as secure as we can get, and we are running out of time,” Cassandra barked out. “Are you ready?”

At her words, Arcturus sucked in a deep breath, and looked down at his hand. No turning back. He nodded.

* * *

Phantom voices echoed in Arcturus’ ears as he clambered down the ruined steps of the courtyard, carefully avoiding the red whispering stones that Varric seemed extremely distraught about. He _recognized_ some of those voices, but even as he wracked his brains, there was nothing there.

Ahead of him, a huge Rift loomed. With the Breach too far overhead, Solas had determined that this Rift was the first, and that closing it would theoretically close the Breach.

 _“Someone help me!”_ The phantom woman’s voice shrieked, and Arcturus noted that he wasn’t the only one who looked around suspiciously as he picked his way through the rubble.

“That was Divine Justinia’s voice…” Leliana murmured, barely audible behind him.

 _“What’s going on here?”_ His own voice said, the sound bouncing around the shattered ruins. He vaulted down the last drop, landing right near the large crystal that dominated the center of the blast. Cassandra looked over at him and raised an eyebrow; Arcturus shook his head. He still remembered none of this. Maybe when he sealed the Breach, there would be answers.

 _“Run while you can! Warn them!”_ Justinia screamed, her warning unheeded. The soldiers started to take positions up around the giant Rift while Solas stood at his base, presumably studying it with his magic.

 _"W **e have an intruder. Kill the elf.”**_ The last voice boomed, it’s tone imperial. There was an accent there, strangely familiar, but Arcturus couldn’t place it. He had encountered so many new accents and languages on his journey with Mahanon, it was all a jumble in his mind. After the new voice ordered Arcturus’ death, the voices ceased.

“Arcturus, who was that other voice?” Cassandra demanded, her hand on the hilt of her sword. She was noticeably more tense here, her mouth bared in a half-snarl. Arcturus shrugged his shoulders helplessly.

“I don’t know,” he said, keeping his voice quiet. It was nearly drowned out by the hum of the Rift above them, and the Breach above that. In front of them, Solas stepped away from the Rift.

“I was correct,” he called out. “This Rift is the first. If we activate it and then close it, we should be able to close the Breach. However, activating it will attract attention from the other side.”

“That means demons!” Cassandra shouted, adding her voice to Solas’. “We must be prepared.”

Arcturus watched as the soldiers started to take up positions around the Rift, their swords raised and bowstrings taunt. The pain in his arm was constant here, and he hoped that the others would be able to take the bulk of the fighting. He caught Varric’s eye as he stepped closer towards the Rift, and the dwarf gave him a sad, reassuring smile and a half-hearted wink as he placed bolt after bolt into his beloved Bianca.

Arcturus tried to smile back, but he couldn’t muster the energy as he finally entered range with the Rift. Once the soldiers were in place, he raised his hand, and his mark connected with the Rift.

As soon as the connection made place, Arcturus knew that this Rift would be the fight of his life. As he tore open the hole between two worlds, he felt a large, dark presence step through the Rift. He opened his eyes to see a giant, armored demon with multitudes of beady black eyes and large horns materialize out of the rift, laughing inhumanely as it landed near the base of the crystal.

Out of its hands it conjured whips of crackling purple lightning, and as soon as it spotted the soldiers it laughed again and lashed out. The battle was on, and the demon hadn’t seemed to notice Arcturus yet. Now that the connection was open, Arcturus needed to seal the hole back up again before more demons poured through.

Ducking around the side of the large crystal, Arcturus kept as close as he could to the Rift, his arm still raised and connected. The soldiers kept the demons away from him, each of them fighting back to back against waves of smaller demons. The huge demon was preoccupied with the combined forces of Leliana, Cassandra, Varric, and Solas. Cassandra was hacking at its ankles while Leliana and Varric peppered it with arrows, shafts finding their way between the gaps in the scales.

Solas was keeping Cassandra covered, and occasionally shot off spikes of ice and balls of fire in the demon’s direction. Finally, the demon seemed to have enough, and roared once more. It conjured several balls of crackling purple energy, and everyone except Arcturus scrambled for cover as the lightning shot out, one of the balls frying one unlucky soldier to a steaming, blackened crisp.

Arcturus almost laughed out loud as he felt the ball of lightning pass harmlessly through his side. He was a creature of lightning, able to conjure storms at full power in his true form.

Where lighting should burn, it instead kissed the tips of his ears and skin. The flash and heat of the whip soared past his face, and Arcturus had never felt more alive in his life. When half of the Rift was closed, Arcturus felt his connection break, and the Rift let out a violent pulse that drove the demon to its knees. His heart was beating a mile a minute, and adrenaline was flooding his veins one more.

It was comparable to flying, this feeling of exhilaration, and as the demon roared from its injuries Arcturus nearly roared with it. He moved away from the demon, letting the other soldiers draw its fire, and lifted his hand back to the Rift.

He leaned on his sword as he fed energy into the flow, painstakingly patching the gaping hole step by step. He had to break it off around the three-quarters mark, his burst of adrenaline nearly spent. Arcturus collapsed at the base of the Rift, reduced to only watching as Cassandra hacked angrily at the demon’s now-vulnerable backside, her face contorted in anger. _I wouldn’t want to get on her bad side,_ he thought dazedly. Behind the soldiers, Solas was holding off a wave of the smaller demons, his staff flashing with ice and fire, Varric firing determinedly at his side.

Everyone was fighting to the death, and Arcturus would die regardless unless he could muster the strength. Groaning, he pushed himself up for the last time. He wasn’t sure when he started crying, but the tears sliding down his cheeks still surprised him. He didn’t want to die; he never asked for the mark on his hand, but he had no choice now. He had to do this. Arcturus lifted his hand up to the Rift, and willed the connection to open again.

He staggered back as green light seemed to consume his hand in molten agony, his veins thick and bloated with this unnatural energy. There were demons on the other side of the Rift, all clamoring to push through, and through it all it felt as though the air itself was pressing down on Arcturus, crushing him.

There was a darkness here that wasn’t there before, a malevolent will seeking him out. Arcturus could feel it probing at his mind, sapping at his will. Instincts long buried rose up in his gut, and following them he roared a challenge at the Rift as he took a step forward, strengthening his connection.

Into it he fed the rage and force of a dragon transformed, the fury of the storm contained within bone and scale and elven flesh. The sudden rush of energy from his core pushed back the demons from the Rift, and the Rift’s edges started to waver. The dark presence had disappeared, and the pressure was gone. It was closing!

He had to make the final push now, or the entire Rift would tear back open. Arcturus squeezed his eyes shut and kept the mark steady with his other hand as the glowing light connecting him to the Rift started to waver and crackle, the beam thickening. He could feel his control wavering, and with a last effort Arcturus fed all the power he could muster into the gap.

He could feel the fabric separating the two worlds harden under his touch, and a bright white light flashed in front of his eyelids, and Arcturus felt something wrench in his gut. He opened his eyes just as the beam vanished, and the Rift exploded into a ring of green energy that shot upwards towards the Breach.

As soon as the green energy made contact, Arcturus’ eyes rolled up into the back of his head, his limbs went limp, and he was plunged into darkness for the fifth time that day. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We got ourselves a fledgling Reaver. Since the Reaver specialization comes from dragon blood, and Arcturus is a dragon in mortal form at present, I decided he's got the same qualities. 
> 
> Elvish Translations:
> 
> Delavir shemlen: Stupid human  
> Dara dhama fra a dar’misaan sule a sil gara or a masa: Go sit on your sword until your brains leak out of your ass
> 
> Mahanon's got a potty mouth when he's angry.
> 
> Tevene Translation:  
> Vishante kaffas - You shit on my tongue  
> Vadeve venhedis - To the Void with You

**Author's Note:**

> If you spot any mistakes, please let me know! I'm constantly trying to improve my work, and I'd love feedback! Comments are the highlight of my day, and I love to talk about Dragon Age!


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